


17 Black

by tattedlarents



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst AF, Football Coach Harry, Football Player Louis, Fucked up childhood, Louis gets bullied :(, M/M, Waiting, always sassy louis, and football, basically a fic about sexual tension tho, independent louis, lots of waiting, more waiting, sometimes asshole harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5500094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattedlarents/pseuds/tattedlarents
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a football player, Harry is the new coach who happens to be sexy and an asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kay so the beginning of this fic is roughly written bc I was a yung writer at the time, but I promise that everything smooths out within the first few chapters. Stick with me through the eternity of angst in this fic, too. It's painfully intense. PLEASE SHARE THIS W YOUR FRIENDS AND GIVE ME FEEDBACK AND CUTE COMMENTS 
> 
> -Bella

"God damn you, Tomlinson," Liam grunts as he hastily retrieves the football from the net. 

Louis smirks and shrugs his shoulders, smoothly catching the ball out of the air with the lace of his foot as Liam throws it back out at him. 

"Don't hate the player, hate the game," he smugly retorts, taking a touch before swinging his leg back and cleanly striking through the ball. 

Liam dives to the side and snatches the ball out of the air before it hits the net. A good save, Louis has to admit. 

"Not bad, Payno," he compliments, placing his hands on his hips. "Seems like you've been training lately." 

Liam shrugs. "Got to be ready for tryouts this week," he explains, dropping the ball to the ground and rolling it with his feet. "Rumor has it that the coach this year is a true pain in the ass."

Louis snorts, rolling his eyes. "Nothing the Tommo can't handle."

"Yeah, only because you're used to having people be irritated by you," Liam counters with a chuckle. 

"Whatever," Louis laughs. "I'm sure this coach can't be that bad."

Liam kicks the ball into the sidelines, then strolls over to the bench and takes a seat, leaning his elbows on his knees. 

"I dunno, mate. I heard that when he was coaching his former team, he made some kid run sprints until he puked, just because he was ten minutes late to practice." 

Louis crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow, albeit, impressed. 

"That's pretty harsh, don't you think?"

Liam shrugs. "Told you he was a pain in the ass. Oh, shoot, I've got to go," he says suddenly, jumping up and scrambling for his backpack. 

"Why?"

"Dinner," Liam explains, slinging the bag over his shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah, see you then," Louis says, smiling. 

Liam pats him on the back and turns to walk away. Louis just sits on the bench, watching his friend leave until he is already out of sight. He wonders how tryouts will go for him this year, and if the new coach is going to be as much of a prick that Liam made him out to be. He hopes not, because when Louis doesn't like someone, admittedly, he can be a little bit of a bitch sometimes. He's sassy and stubborn, not the type of person that you'd want to give a bad impression. Louis could be a real sweethart, though. He'll follow some rules, be nice if he has to. Just depends on the person, is all. If he has any luck at all, this new coach will be just like his old one: Louis' absolute, number one fan in the universe, and really easy to negotiate with. If things don't turn out in his favor, it'll be a rough season, for sure. Not just for Louis, but for the coach as well. 

Last year, Louis was team captain. Star player, great athlete, best center midfielder in town. He was the coach's pet, and had gotten used to nothing less than complete favoritism throughout his whole high school career. Coach Hughes always had Louis leading warmups, organizing team work-outs, and starting all of the games. He played almost every minute of every match for the whole season, and he was never off his game. The loads of attention that came with his success in the sport wasn't unwelcome, but it was unusual for him at first. His childhood hadn't really offered him the same caliber of attention that he has been receiving for the last three years since he's been on this team, so it's been a change, to put it simply. He's doing well with it. The only thing is, Coach Hughes is leaving, so technically, Louis isn't guaranteed anything this year. He might not even keep his spot as captain, which before, seemed like a permanent title. It's a frightening thought to him, honestly. Louis is self aware, though-- he knows that he is a pretty good player, and easy to get on with for the most part. So how hard could it be to just simply win over this new, supposedly dick of a coach with the same charm he used on Hughes?  
___________________________

(Day of Tryouts)

Louis's eyes are glued on the second-hand of the clock in history class, watching as it slowly ticks past each mark. He taps his shoe against the tile floor, creating a dull tap that he would normally find annoying if anyone else was doing it, and chews on the eraser of his pencil, completely tuning out his teacher. Twenty more seconds, fifteen, ten, five...The bell sounds its metallic shrill and it's music to Louis' ears. He is already springing up from his chair, stuffing all of his books into his backpack carelessly. He sits in the back of the classroom, so he is last out of the door, merging into the current of hustling students who are all just as eager to leave school. Louis pushes past and squeezes between other bustling students, both giving and receiving dirty looks, until he finally reaches his locker. He spins the combination dial and unlocks it, snatching his gym bag and slamming it shut. Liam told him to meet him by the boys' locker room after school, so he heads in that direction as hurriedly as he can manage. Louis spots Liam strolling down the hallway, swinging his gym bag in his hands, a kind smile on his face as he approaches. 

"Hey, man," Louis greets, grinning already at the sight of his friend. 

Liam claps him on the back. "Hey, Tommo, ready for tryouts?"

"Yeah, yeah. Nervous. You?" 

"Eh, I'm not too nervous," Liam smirks, following Louis into the locker room. "I'm the only goalkeeper trying out, so I think I'll be alright."

Louis scoffs. Liam, that lucky bastard. Maybe he should've been a keeper, after all. He tosses his bag down onto the bench farthest from where the majority of the team crowds. Every year, he's done that--tried to distance himself as much as possible from the group of annoying, over-confident jocks that he's been blessed to have as teammates. None of them have never been Louis' favorites--for good reason--but it has worked out fine that way, since they didn't pay much attention to him to begin with. With a few exceptions, Louis' teammates find him to be invisible, even as captain of their squad. They didn't even give him a second glance as he and Liam walked into the room. That's just their team dynamic, though, he supposes. Easier to leave it be than to try to fix it with some team bonding shit or something. 

Louis turns to face the corner and peels out of his hoodie and t-shirt, quickly pulling his under armor undershirt and football jersey on over his torso. Then he wiggles out of his tight jeans, replacing them with his compression shorts and athletic shorts. Meanwhile, he is making a sorry attempt to calm himself down, mentally giving himself a pep talk for these next few hours of hellish tryouts, because he honestly doesn't know what to expect, which is scary. Just the nervous anticipation of it all ruins the whole idea of tryouts. 

Apparently, Louis subconsciously has a desire to destroy himself, because when he turns back around, he sees that Liam is already lacing up his football cleats. He's going to be late, at this pace, certainly. Just the other day, Liam was mentioning to him how this new coach punished his player for being late, and here he is, doing the same thing. 

"God, Liam, you're quick," he comments, hurriedly yanking on his socks with a new sense of urgency. 

"And you're late," Liam says, hopping up from the bench and jogging out of the door and towards the field. 

Louis curses under his breath and slips his shin-guard into one sock, repeating the process with the other. His fingers frantically fumble with his shoe laces as he unties them, then reties them into triple knots after he slips them onto his feet. With a final exhale, Louis springs up and practically sprints out of the door, not wanting to be even a second later than he already is, even though he's fairly confident that he's completely missed the mark, already. There's no point in trying to salvage the punctuality of his arrival. 

Louis jogs out onto the field, his heart immediately sinking as he sees all of the players standing in a straight line on the sideline, facing him. They look like they're lined up in some military order or something. Not a good sign for Louis. Some of his teammates glare at him but the rest, including Liam, only sneak him a wary look, like they pity the pain that he's going to suffer for being late. Standing in front of the line of players is a tall, skinny man with broad shoulders and a slight slouch with long hair, clad in a windbreaker and simple, snug black jeans. Louis can't get a good view at the guy because he is facing away from him, but from the looks of his body alone--not to mention his healthy curls--he seems young. Attempting to be stealthy, Louis creeps his way up to stand beside Liam at the far end of the line. The person apparently notices how everyone is staring at Louis, and he moves to turn around as well. When he finally gets a look at the guy, Louis' breath catches in his lungs. 

The man is definitely young, he realizes, because his dark, wind-swept curls are thick and frame his chiseled cheekbones and jaw, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His lips are a soft, natural pink and full, almost like a girl's, but they somehow look a lot better on his face than they would on any woman. Thick, straight eyebrows furrow together into a frown over hard, but beautiful, bright eyes. Louis is too far away to tell their color, but he immediately decides that he wants to find out. This person is likely to be the most gorgeous man that Louis has ever laid eyes on, and for fuck's sake, this must be his football coach. 

Louis doesn't even notice that he's standing, frozen, halfway between the line of his teammates and where his new coach stands. An embarrassed flush heats his cheeks and he forced himself into action. Blinking his eyes, Louis closes his gaping mouth, awkwardly jogging over to stand beside Liam on the far end of the line. He feels his coach's strict stare follow him all the way there, making his skin crawl uncomfortably. Louis stands rigidly, like the rest of the players, looking straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contract with anyone, especially the coach. Something about this situation is frustrating, and even a bit aggravating, because Louis Tomlinson is never intimidated or scared by anyone, and within a minute of meeting him, this new coach seems to be contradicting that statement. It's silent for a few seconds before someone speaks. 

"Late on the first day of tryouts," a slow, deep, hearty voice says, undoubtedly belonging to the man, a dissatisfactory note evident in his tone. 

Louis doesn't picture the voice matching the coach's look, but somehow, it seems to make him impossibly hotter. When Louis finally gathers the courage to look up, a pair of sharp eyes land directly on his own, and he feels trapped, pinned down by the man's intimidatingly lingering stare. 

"I'll be keeping an eye on you," the coach threatens, glancing pointedly at him. Louis' insides churn. 

The coach turns on his heels and paces down the line of players slowly, all long legs and long strides, his voice carrying off slightly by the wind. 

"I'm Harry Styles, or Coach Styles to you," he states, pushing his hands into his windbreaker pockets and rocking back on his heels. "M' from Cheshire, played a few years of collegiate football, but was taken out with a knee injury before I could make it to the pros."

Louis has to admit, he's impressed with this, but the fact that this god-like, hard-ass coach is already getting under his skin is still beginning to grate on his nerves. He can already tell that he's going to have to put up a solid effort to get on this guy's good side. Coach Styles continues his speech, strolling easily down to Louis' end of the line and stopping right in front of him, though he does not look directly at him. Louis, however, can't seem to look anywhere else. 

"For that reason, am here to share my knowledge with you, and teach you all--to the best of my ability-- to be the best player you can be. So without further adue, let's get started." 

"I want two laps around the field, and don't cut corners," Styles orders chiefly, sending the group into an immediate frenzy to obey his command. 

Louis stifles a groan and begins jogging, leading the line around the field. He's in fairly good shape, so two laps are of course no struggle for him. He amps up his efforts, anyways, picking up his pace to a solid run. By the time he's finished, the others are still a solid few meters behind him. Maybe his fitness can earn him some brownie points. 

Coach Styles is waiting idly in the middle of the field, so Louis jogs over, then stands near the man, still careful to keep a safe distance away. It's a challenge, but Louis doesn't look at him, instead pretending to watch the others as they finish jogging their warm up laps. He notices that the coach is watching him, though, and even though he refuses to make eye contact, Louis can physically sense that Styles is scrutinizing every single flaw and picking out every detail and weakness that is visible on Louis' surface. Louis doesn't like it. It makes him feel exposed, in a way, and he doesn't think that's ever been a great feeling. He is relieved when the rest of his teammates, including Liam, jog up and stand beside him, breathing heavily with hands on their hips as they wait for their next orders. He doesn't think he has never seen his team act so on-edge and obedient around a coach before, and it's bothering him. Why is this coach any different than Hughes? He shifts his weight to the side and places his hands on his hips, trying to fight the scowl growing on his face at his immediate distaste for this new coach. The guy's ravishingly good looks are not helping, either. 

"We're going straight to one-on-ones, so get into two lines at the eighteen, and half of you grab a ball," Harry--or Coach Styles instructs, lazily picking at the cuticle of his thumbnail. He looks like a fucking king. It's irritating. 

Louis fetches a ball and joins the back of one of the lines, watching as two by two, the pairs battle for possession until one eventually scores. He's up next, against Lucas, a quieter boy that he doesn't hate as much as the others, but still doesn't like, either. Should be an easy match up. He feels Styles' eyes following his every move as he passes the ball to his opponent and positions himself between the ball and the net, on defense. Lucas takes an aggressive stab forward, and Louis moves with him, not allowing any easy attacks. After a moment of anticipation, when he sees the opportunity, Louis swipes the ball from under Lucas's feet and swiftly rolls it past him in a smooth roulette, his transition too quick for Lucas to keep up with. He strikes through the ball powerfully, and it hits the back of the net with a pleasant sound. 

Louis triumphantly jogs back to the end of the line, giving Liam a high-five on his way. He can't help but let his gaze wander over to Coach St--screw it--Harry, who is chewing his bottom lip in a rather distracting way, poised with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks tall standing like that, probably all thanks to his long legs. Louis wonders if Harry even watched his goal. 

It is Louis' turn again, but this time, he's competing against Ryan Shoemaker. This guy is by far his least favorite of the team. It's a long story, but the two of them have some history, and it's not good. Physically, Ryan is enormous, probably at least a good six inches taller than Louis, and he has the muscular build of an ox. Despite his figure, Shoemaker is a surprisingly decent center defender. 

Ryan sends Louis a vicious glare as he kicks him the ball, getting himself into a defensive position. The one weakness that Louis is certain Ryan has is speed, so Louis does a few quick ball maneuvers to throw him off balance, and when he's sure that the majority of his opponent's weight is completely to the left, he dives to the right and heads for the goal. But before he can shoot, there's a massive force slamming like a freight train into his side and sending him flying to the ground, where he lands with a thud and a groan, feeling the grass itch his cheek. There's a throbbing pain below his ribs and across his shoulder, and Louis screws his eyes shut to fight back tears. 

"Get up," is what he hears first. It's Harry who yells from the sidelines, his voice showing absolutely no sympathy. 

Louis inhales deeply to calm himself down and try to will away the ache in his side. He wants to yell something sassy and rude back at Harry, because really, it isn't necessary to be this much of a dick. Instead, he forces himself up off the ground and slowly makes his way back to the end of the line, ignoring the flare of anger that pulses through him when he sees one or two other teammates fist bump a smirking Ryan. That's just fucking enough. It's one thing to have your teammates dislike you, but it's another when they hurt you on purpose and then get congratulated for it. Whatever. He'll just end up ignoring it, like every other time. 

When Harry walks with his long, effortless gait toward the middle of the field, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his windbreaker, he looks completely unaffected by the cruel attack that Louis just endured, expression neutral and lips set in a straight line. It adds fuel to Louis' hate fire towards everything. 

"Let's get into scrimmage teams," Harry says almost shouting over the wind, voice deep. He points two long fingers at Ryan and another boy, Zeke, Louis thinks his name is. "You two are captains. Pick your teams; one will have to play shirts, the other, skins."

In his mind, Louis prays that he doesn't have to play shirtless. He works out, he diets when he has the chance, and even though his body is toned and fit, it barely dulls his self-consciousness. In the past, Louis has had major self esteem issues. Whenever he looked at himself, he always thought he was too fat, or too ugly, or too short. He wasn't the only one who noticed it, though. Everyone else seemed to see how disgusting he really was after he came out. And although he's been more in-shape than ever lately, his self consciousness hasn't died down a whole lot, so he's still admittedly terrified of exposing his body to the rest of the team, not to mention his new coach. 

"Louis," Zeke calls out immediately as his first pick. 

Slightly relieved not to be chosen last, Louis jogs up to join the forming line of his scrimmage team. Liam gives him a weak smile as he passes. Once the teams are complete, Zeke and Ryan start having a paper rock scissors duel to determine who will be shirts, and who will be skins. Louis gnaws on his lip anxiously and subconsciously crosses his arms around his torso, as if doing so will prevent him from having to remove his shirt. Thank god, though, Ryan's team loses and they toss their shirts to the side as Louis' team remains fully clothed. 

Zeke's team takes one half of the field and Ryan's takes the other, Louis jogging into his center-midfield position, eyes anxiously flitting over to where Coach Styles is sat on the bench by the sideline, his lanky legs crossed in front of him and his hands still buried in the pockets of his windbreaker. Louis finds himself becoming so intently focused on how softHarry's dark curls look when tussled by the wind that he hardly notices when the match begins. Frowning to himself, he shifts into an offensive position as his team possesses the ball, and then into a defensive one when the other team is attacking their net. On last year's team, Louis was appointed as captain because his coach admired his ability to 'see' the whole field and use all aspects of the game to the team's advantage. So it's naturally Louis' role to be the one to release key passes and make strategic tackles, as well as to create scoring opportunities for his teammates. He has to admit, he's gotten pretty used to having this responsibly on the team, and has become quite good at it. During this scrimmage, he feels especially at ease and completely in rhythm with the game. 

It's the last five minutes of the game, the score remains tied, neither team having scored, and Ryan is driving the ball out of the back line and down the field, straight at Louis. Being the oaf Ryan is, dribbling is obviously one of his weakness, so Louis isn't as nervous this time to go into a tackle with the guy. Easily, Louis swipes the ball from underneath Ryan's feet and spins right off of him, leaving the burly defender in a daze behind him as he maneuvers past a couple of other opposing players. The goal is only a few yards away now, only one obstacle between him and the net: the goalkeeper. Louis simply flicks his foot underneath the ball and sends it sailing into the far left corner, taking his team into the lead by a goal. A smile creeps up his lips as a few of his teammates approach him, clapping him on the back, wide smiles on their faces as Harry--or, Coach Styles signals the end of the game. 

All of the players hurry over to stand uniformly in front of the coach, as if they were afraid that he'd, like, beat them up if they were the last one there. Louis almost scoffs and rolls his eyes at how threatened they are of Harry, because Louis finds that he himself really isn't. He has a sense that the coach already hates him, and it somehow makes him less likely to be afraid of disappointing the guy. It also makes Louis want to pester the hell out of him, though. 

"Same place, same time, tomorrow after school, and don't be late," Harry instructs, his sharp emerald stare shifting pointedly to Louis. 

Despite the shiver that threatens Louis' body, he glares right back. The air is tense, and after a prolonged second, Harry finally breaks the stare-down and looks out at the group of players. "You are dismissed."

The others start to walk off the field, and Louis begins to follow, more than eager to get out of the place and away from his asshole coach and teammates. Just as he he turns away, though, he is stopped in his tracks. Fantastic. He can't say he didn't expect it. 

"Not you," Harry orders from behind him, voice a low rumble. 

Louis spins around on his heel and stands a few yards from Harry, who's already looking at him with those narrowed eyes that seem to be always scrutinizing every detail of Louis, head to toe. Harry's judging him, has been from the moment they met, just two hours ago, and Louis knows it. It makes Louis equal parts hyper-self aware and annoyed. 

"What?" he snaps, certain he's only being held back to be criticized some more. 

Harry holds out an hand and motions with two, impeccably long fingers (are those rings?) for Louis to come closer. Hastily, but still obediently, Louis steps towards Harry until they are a few feet apart and crosses his arms over his chest, hopefully exuding an air of impatience and agitation. It's then that Louis is able to really notice how tall Harry is, probably an entire head taller than himself. Louis has to literally tilt his head up just to glare at him. He watches with a scowl as Harry's tongue darts out between his lips and his eyebrows push together inquisitively. 

"What's your name?" He asks, but it's more like a statement. 

"Louis."

"Full name," Harry says, voice sharp enough to cut.

"Louis Tomlinson."

"You were late, Louis Tomlinson" he says bluntly. 

Louis rolls his eyes. "And?"

A smirk pulls up a corner of Harry's lips, and a shadow of a dimple pokes through his cheek. Louis wants to set himself on fire. Really? A dimple? Harry rocks back on his heels and peers down at Louis, actually seeming amused with his irritation. It infuriates Louis. He doesn't think any of this is funny. Then, the smirk on Harry's face is gone, replaced with a darker look, a glint in his eyes, and he's leaning down, becoming dangerously close to invading Louis' personal space. Louis' heart stutters in his chest for a moment, and Harry's breath puffs in visible clouds around his face as he speaks. 

"You're going to make it up to me," he states. 

Louis's stomach twists as he processes the words in his mind, twisting them into more than one meaning. And suddenly, he is thinking of Harry in more ways than he thinks he wants to; thinking of the different things those big hands could do, or those nice, nice lips...And god, as much as Louis already despises Harry, it's still almost impossible to keep these images out of his mind, he's just so fit. It has literally only been two hours, and already, Louis' self control has gone right out the window. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame of his own inability to resist the raw sex appeal of this man, and judging by the look on Harry's face, he must be reading Louis's thoughts like an open book. Gulping nervously, Louis still tries to pretend like he isn't in the least bit fazed, even though his act is probably completely transparent. That sinful smirk is back on Harry's lips.

"And how's that?" Louis asks stubbornly, thanking his own voice for not shaking. 

"Tomorrow after practice, you're staying after for a while," Harry says, glare unwavering. "I don't care if you're busy."

Louis narrows his eyes, but his insides stir anxiously at the preposition. 

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes. "Can I go now?"

Harry's eyes scrape over Louis' entire body, a bit too languidly to be coincidental, leaving dozens of sparks of electricity on Louis' skin in their wake. After a moment, he looks up to meet Louis' gaze, corners of his mouth quirked thoughtfully. Finally, he waves a dismissive hand in Louis' direction. 

"Yeah, go ahead."

With that, Louis promptly turns his back on Harry and walks away, face hot with shame at how fast his heart is beating in his chest.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, bear with me--I wrote this a little bit ago and the beginning is a bit rusty but towards the 15's/20's chapters are more recent and will be much better written :)))

Today Louis finds out if he has earned a spot on the football team for his third year in a row. Unlike the other tryouts he had experienced, Louis was actually uncertain whether he would make the team or not. Sure, his football skills by themselves were considerably better than average, but with Harry as the new coach, Louis didn't have a guaranteed spot on the team this year. His freshman and sophomore years as a football player for the school were a breeze. The coach loved him, always had him leading warm ups and never started him on the bench. But this year was different, and he wasn't confident that he would get a spot because of his now complicated, and rather awkward, relationship with Coach Styles. 

 

Louis shuffled down the hallway, lugging his books along in his arms and occasionally smiling at one of the rare students at the school that didn't hate him. Louis's situation was different, regarding the fact that half of the school really didn't mind him, and the other half would laugh at his funeral. They only hated him for his homosexuality, which was hard, because Louis couldn't change that. He liked men, big deal. It wasn't like he was going to hit on any of them or something. None of them were even attractive, anyway. The majority of those who resented him were on his football team from previous years. They would push him around in the locker room, call him names, and all that. But lately, they hadn't been doing it as much. 

 

After twisting the dial, Louis crammed all of his textbooks into the endless abyss of overdue papers and forgotten jackets that he called his locker, and dug his football bag out. He had to kick his locker a few times to get it to close before he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed down the hallways, towards the locker room. The corridors were mostly quiet as Louis walked; the majority of the students had left school already. The silence was a bad thing, because it allowed Louis's mind to think freely, touching over subjects that he didn't welcome into his imagination. The image of his coach the day before popped into his head, his big curls artfully styled around his face, lips irresistible and eyes unbearably intense, mouth merely inches from Louis's. Louis remembered it all too well, especially the heart-wrenching feeling of rejection when Harry had so rudely dismissed him right when he had gotten Louis's hopes all up like a child who was promised candy. Then, with a shake of his head, Louis clears his mind from the thought and continues to walk. He can't have those kind of things polluting his mind on a day as important as this one. 

 

Liam beat him to the locker room, and Louis greets him warmly, along with a clap on the back as they walk into the room together, to their usual lockers. Louis changes quickly again, avoiding the disgusted glances from his other teammates. It's like they think he enjoys undressing in front of them just because he's gay. Which is definitely not the case, because every single one of them were totally not Louis's type. Tugging on his socks and shinguards and tying up his laces with a minute to spare, Louis is cutting it close. He bursts out the locker room door and into the field. He smiles to himself as he feels cool rain beginning to sprinkle on his skin. Playing in the rain is his favorite. 

 

The team is formed, again, in a tight line, Coach Styles standing before them, like a conductor before an orchestra, the players waiting for his orders like waiting for their cue. Louis knows he's going to get noticed as he sneaks onto the end of the line, right beside Ryan, who's glare he can feel drilling into the side of his head. Louis is cringing as he keeps his head down, trying to avoid Coach Styles's inevitable scolding. The whole line, including Harry, is silent, and Louis knows that they were all waiting on him. He prepares himself for the worst as he hears Harry call his name, sending child down his body, like the cold rain sliding down the curve of his spine. 

 

"Tomlinson."

 

Harry is standing right in front of him, now, so he has to look up. And what makes it so much harder is that Harry looks so incredibly hot right then, standing tall over him, the rain dampening the ends of his hair, a curl falling out of its style and over his cheekbone. There's water dripping down his skin, and his eyes are sharp as ever, an intimidating scowl written across his features. So many things are racing through Louis's imagination, a fair amount of them explicit. He knows that Harry can sense his discomfort, and he just wishes to disappear. 

 

"There seems to be a reoccurring problem here, would you agree?" Harry drills, his voice firm, with a dangerous edge of irritation. 

 

"Yes," Louis says, feeling heat crawl up his neck despite the freezing downpour. 

 

"And what do you think should be the consequences for misbehaving boys like you?" 

 

Electricity pulses through his body with Harry's words, causing him to shiver involuntarily. With a gulp, Louis shakes his head, averting his gaze to his already soaked cleats. 

 

"I-I don't know." 

 

He feels Harry's eyes travel up and down his body, burning like fire. The tension in the air is pressing down on his shoulders, making him want to shrink. The silence is unbearable, though brief. 

 

"Why don't we decide on it after this practice, then, Tomlinson."

 

Louis's nods, not daring to look up from his shoes. 

 

"Alright then," Harry continues, strolling on down the line. "Two laps." 

 

***

 

Louis is breathing heavier than he thinks he ever has in his life. Sweat and rain drench his clothes, and despite the freezing temperature, his body feels overheated. The team had done sprints and runs of all kinds for the whole practice, with hardly any breaks. Coach Styles was relentlessly working them until they literally dropped. A few kids were actually sprawled out on the wet grass, their chests heaving with labored breaths. Louis would laugh at them if he had the wind to. 

 

He can't help but lift his gaze to find Harry. He is standing in his relaxed posture, with his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, his eyes calmly sweeping over the group of exhausted players. The heavy drops of rain are wetting his thick hair and sliding down his nose and catching in his eyelashes, and he looks at Louis then. Something so discreet that it is almost unnoticeable changes in Harry's eyes changes in that moment, something so intense that Louis finds himself quickly averting his gaze to the wet grass before he can determine what it might have been. When Louis turns away, his heart is beating in his chest just as fast as it had been when he was running. 

 

"Hey, Louis," a familiar approaching voice says from behind him. 

 

Louis snaps out of his haze and turns to face Liam, who has walked up beside him, not even looking exhausted in the least bit, his hands placed casually on his hips. The thing about Liam is that he is literally superhuman. You could ask him to run a marathon in twenty minutes and he'd do it in nineteen. Louis gets jealous of Liam because of that all the time; he himself probably looks like a wreck right now. But his presence was comforting to him in a way, and he smiled graciously at his friend. 

 

"Hey, Li. You sure look whipped," he jokes. 

 

Liam rolls his eyes. "I do runs all the time."

 

Typical.

 

"So what's going on with you and Coach? Looks like you two really have it out for each other."

 

"Something like that," Louis shrugs, kicking a clump of grass with the toe of his shoe. 

 

 

They are interrupted by the sound of Harry's deep, commanding shout. 

 

"Gather up." 

 

Although their legs probably all feel like liquid, they all scramble up and stand in a half circle a respectable distance from where Harry is stood. Louis purposely stays near the back, and beside Liam. Harry pulls his hands out of his pockets and rubs them together a few times, his eyes observant as always as he overlooks the players, his players. For a few moments, it's quiet, beside the tap of raindrops bouncing off shoulders. Then Harry speaks. 

 

"I know that most of you probably think that getting onto this soccer team is going to be easy," he says, his deep voice cutting through the silence. "But some of you....erm, y-you know that it's not like that, and you gave it a good effort every time." 

 

Louis feels a laugh building in his throat, because is Coach Styles actually stammering? 

 

"So if you don't get a spot, it's because you weren't one of those people," Harry explains, finally lifting his gaze. 

 

 

How is Louis actually nervous? He never gets nervous. Is there actually a possibility that he might not make the team this year? His previous coaches loved him, favorited him more than any other on the team. But this time, it's not those coaches that are choosing. It's Harry. And Louis might just be screwed. 

 

Harry fumbles in his pocket for a piece of paper and unfolds it with one hand while running his fingers through his dripping hair with the other. 

 

"I'm going to call the names of those of you who, um, who have made the cuts," Harry says. "If you don't hear your name, I'm sorry, but, it is what it is." 

 

Louis chews his bottom lip and waits. He doesn't think he's ever been so uncertain. 

 

"Liam."

 

Beside Louis, Liam is beaming, and Louis gives him a clap on the back, with a congratulatory nod. Liam must catch onto the nervous look in Louis's eye, because he smiles reassuringly and squeezes Louis's hand quickly. 

 

"Ryan--," Louis grimaces. "Keith, Isaiah, Jake, Ed--"

 

Louis is sure now. As he's listening to the names of the new team, he's sure that his will not be among them. Why would Harry pick him if he was late to almost every practice, even if he did make it up after? Louis was good at the sport, but that didn't seem to be what Harry cared about the most. 

 

"--and Louis." 

 

What? Louis looks around, and everyone is looking back, few with smiles, many with glares. Liam has turned towards him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, giving him a bright smile. 

 

"Congratulations, mate," the brown eyed boy says warmly. 

 

Louis is too surprised to return more than a weak "thanks". He had actually made it. Harry had chosen him over other players, maybe not as good, but more punctual than him. He didn't know whether to feel proud of himself or not, because did he really deserve it? He had worked hard all week, but he still didn't believe that he would be chosen. And he also didn't seem to be the only one who was shocked. Both players of the new team and players who had been cut were sending him sharp looks that would probably intimidate him if he wasn't so confused. 

 

"Thank you all for your participation," Harry says, and the low murmurs of surprise cut off abruptly. "The first team practice is Monday. Don't be late." 

 

With that statement, he gives Louis a pointed look that sends chills through his body. Louis hates how affected he is by everything Harry does. It makes him feel vulnerable, which is something he usually is not, and never likes to be. 

 

"You can go home, now," Harry muttered, turning his back to the group and raking a hand through his wet curls. 

 

For a moment, Louis was filled with relief at the thought that he must've forgotten Louis's punishment, but then suddenly, Harry turned back around just as Louis was leaving and pointed at him, signaling him over with two fingers. Louis's hopes diminished. 

 

"You're staying," Harry states roughly. "Come with me." 

 

He begins to walk along the sideline of the field, towards the bench, with his long strides and lengthy legs. Louis follows behind, practically having to jog to keep up. He looks behind him to see the last player on the field disappearing through the locker room door. Great. Just him and Harry. 

 

Harry stops at the bench and waits for Louis there, his arms crossed over his chest. When Louis is stood in front of him, Harry nods towards the bench. 

 

"Sit." 

 

Even though he feels extremely condescended, Louis plops down on the bench, and crosses his arms to match Harry's, then expressing his displeasure with a frosty glare. Harry just kind of looks at him for a moment after that, from head to toe with no readable emotion in his eyes. His voice is the same. 

 

"Is there a reason why you are always late?" He questions bluntly. 

 

Louis refrains from rolling his eyes and manages to maintain his frown. 

 

"I don't know," he answers, a dangerous hint of sassiness in his tone. 

 

Harry's eyebrows furrow together and he pushes his fingers through his wet curls, recrossing his arms. Louis can definitely tell that he's agitated, and knowing so fuels him, makes him want to push the limits even further. 

 

"You know that this will not be tolerated on my team," Harry insisted, his frown deepening. 

 

Louis is trying to come up with some annoying remark, but he can't quite seem to think about anything other than Harry right now. The way he looks is just... it makes it difficult to want to make him angry. With rain droplets rolling down his fair, porcelain skin, dark locks of damp curls framing his cheekbones, and stunning green eyes that take Louis's breath away, Harry is probably just the most beautiful human Louis has seen. And how can Louis still despise him? 

 

"Tomlinson, I am talking to you," Harry snaps. "Are you deaf?" 

 

Oh, that's why. Because Coach Harry Styles is a fucking dickhole. 

 

"Then why the hell did you pick me?" Louis sneers, narrowing his eyes even more. 

 

Harry's jaw is clenched and his green eyes are more fiery than ever. Louis knows that he's set him off, and he's become a ticking time bomb. He pushes on. 

 

"If you hate my guts so much, than why did you even bother?" Louis presses. "Well you know what? I don't like you either." 

 

Harry looks about ready to smash Louis's face in. Briefly, he wonders if he might be getting himself kicked off of the team. Oh well, it's about time someone told this Harry guy how rude he is. 

 

"I actually think that you're kind of a douche. Like why are you so mean to me all the time? Seriously, what crawled up your--" 

 

"Shut up." 

 

Louis stops talking. The look on Harry's face is so enraged that Louis is actually frightened. He knows he went too far, but was that what he was trying to do? Maybe he wanted to test Harry's reaction, to see if he was ballsy enough to do something about it for real. 

 

But Harry is stepping forward now, and Louis flinches as his hand outstretches in his direction. To his surprise, Harry doesn't hit him. Instead, he fists the collar of Louis's jersey in his hand and yanks him off of the bench. Louis's eyes widen with fear as Harry begins towing him towards the locker rooms. 

 

"What the hell--" 

 

The door shuts after them and Harry suddenly pushes Louis against the locker roughly, not letting go of his shirt. He towers above him, but is leaned in close to his face, huffing angrily, his minty breath against Louis's cheek. 

 

"You know, Tomlinson, just because I'm your coach doesn't mean that I can't do what I want with you," he threatens. "So if you have a problem with me, say it. I dare you." 

 

Louis trembles in Harry's aggressive hold, preparing himself for something bad to happen. He knows it will. Harry leans in further, his damp curls cold against Louis's cheek and their chests barely touching. His eyes are full of rage, waiting for Louis's next move. 

 

"Let go of me," Louis orders calmly. 

 

Harry pauses. He looks down to where his fist clenches around Louis's shirt and to where their chests touch. He seems to register their closeness now, to notice how their noses are only centimeters apart. His stare flickers down to Louis's lips briefly, then back up to his eyes. 

 

"Well, are you going to say it, or not?" Harry asks, ignoring Louis's demand. His tone is impatient and irritated. 

 

Louis gapes up at Harry, and Harry stares down curiously at Louis. He doesn't know what to do. His mind is flying at a million miles an hour, so he just blurts everything that he can think of. 

 

"I hate how you make everyone do whatever you want, and I hate how you are controlling me all the time and act like I do everything wrong. Like, so what if I'm one minute late to practice?" He spouts, narrowing his eyes. "You're such a dick, sometimes, Harry, but I also think that I might like you a little because you're kind of gorgeous and maybe you could be nice if you tried, like really hard, so I don't know whether to hate you or to like you, but I think I hate you. A lot. But I don't know because you... you're just...you." 

 

As he finishes, Louis immediately recoils, pressing back into the locker and waiting for Harry's outburst. But to his shock, his word vomit is met with silence. Cautiously, he peers up at Harry, who's grip on his collar had loosened. Both of his hands were on either sides of Louis's head now, caging him between Harry and the lockers. Harry's eyes are locked on his, and his lips parted slightly, as if he was startled by what Louis had said. Louis stands there, frozen, not sure whether to be afraid of the silence or what would come after it. Harry's eyes move across Louis's face, studying. Louis's heart jumps in his chest. 

 

"I-I'm sorry. I should go," Harry mutters. And he's gone. In seconds, Harry backs away from Louis and disappears through the locker room door.

 

Louis stands still, feeling his cold and wet clothes cling to his body and a sudden sense of loss. He can still imagine Harry's face, inches from his, the rain drops slipping down his nose and still caught in his eyelashes, the heat that his body radiated, and the soft tone he used that Louis had never heard before. Harry had left him wet and cold and alone and confused in the locker room, where he had nothing else to do but think. So he did.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii:) so again, this is old writhing, so hang in there with me, it gets better. Love uuuuuuu guys 
> 
> -Bella

Mondays are already bad enough by themselves. Louis is tired and cranky from the weekend, and on top of that, he has to go to school. And on top of that, in half an hour is his first practice with the newly formed football team. Which he so is not looking forward to attending. Actually, Louis gets to thinking, and he realizes that if Harry was not the coach of his team, he would probably be excited to go to practice. If Harry wasn't the coach of his team, a lot of things would be different, probably none of which he would miss. It's kind of stupid that he practically is now deathly afraid of his own coach. Well, really, though, you can't blame him. Harry is a whole head taller than Louis, and he was on the verge of smashing his head into a slab of metal, and that's reason enough for him to be absolutely dreading their encounter tonight. But then, there was that look in Harry's eye, and the way that he spoke to Louis after he had told him what he really thought. Louis doesn't know what the hell it was or what it could've meant, he can't even guess. It's been troubling him all day, the scenes in the locker room replaying in his mind nonstop, making him even more curious as to what exactly it was. But he decides that he's done thinking about it, because he's getting too distracted over his coach. And of course that's why Louis finds himself completely obliviously walking straight into Ryan Shoemaker. 

 

His mouth opens, and he is about go ape on whoever ran into him, but then he looks up and sees who it is. Ryan is tall and stocky, towering above Louis menacingly with a scowl on his face. His eyes are green, like Harry's, but dull and threatening. Louis looks away and closes his mouth quickly, gathering his gym bag in his arms and stepping past to walk to practice. A meaty hand clamps on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. 

 

"Hey, Tommo, boy," Ryan's booming voice sneers for behind him. The hand on his shoulder spins him around and grips the collar of his shirt, just like Harry had yesterday. He drops his bag in surprise. 

 

"Congrats on making the team, faggot," Ryan says, smiling as he slams Louis's back against the lockers. 

 

As his back slams into the hard metal, his head hits the lockers, too, and hard. So hard that for a moment, all he sees is black, and the pain is so great he thinks he might pass out right then. Louis groans and screws his eyes shut, white spots dancing across the insides of his eyelids. Gasps escape his lips as he feels something hard relentlessly pummel into his stomach, and then a fist crash into his cheek. Helplessly, with tears running down his cheeks, Louis struggles against Ryan's hold on his shirt and tries to wiggle out of his grasp, but Ryan's hand catches his arm. His meaty fingers fit around his whole arm and are as tight as a vice, preventing Louis from running this time. 

 

Ryan leans down, so close to Louis's face that he smells his bitter breath, and growls, "Faggot's don't play football, they just don't."

 

With a snort, he releases Louis' arm and shoves him to the floor. Louis whimpers pathetically and lays curled up on the cold tile as Ryan's foot slams once into his back and once into his hip for the last time. Then, he hears a brute laugh and Ryan's receding footsteps, before everything is silent again, aside from his own staggered breaths as he regains his wind. He tastes the saltiness of his tears--or maybe his blood-- in his mouth and lays on the floor motionless, lost in his own pain. Some people just hate him, so of course he has been beaten up before, but never this badly. The sad thing is, he's not even surprised. 

 

After he gathers himself, Louis reaches for his bag, and scoots over and props himself against the lockers to get off of the ground, the sharp pain in his abdomen causing a breathless groan to fall from his lips as he finally stands. He begins to take steps forward, the throbbing in his head causing the hallway around him to swirl into one big blur. His hand shoots out to brace himself on the wall as he continues walking. 

 

As he staggers towards the locker room, his bag in his hand, he sees that Liam isn't waiting for him. He must be late for practice again. Great. He musters the energy to trip through the door and into the empty locker room, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. He's so dizzy that he can hardly see straight, and the sharp jabs of pain in his stomach, his back, and his hip are not making it any better. The throbbing in the back of his head spreads throughout his whole skull, and his vision goes dark for a painful moment, making him wince and stumble right into a locker. He can't see, and he starts to panic as he feels himself collapsing to the hard tile floor. That's when Louis loses consciousness. 

 

***

 

"Yeah, I-I found him in here just laying on the floor, totally out cold. Dunno what happened, but his head looks pretty busted up." 

 

 

"A-alright..... I can take it from here. You can go home if you'd like." 

 

"Well.... Will you tell me if he's alright?"

 

"Yeah. Sure thing. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks again." 

 

There's the sound of receding footsteps and a door closing, and then it's silent. Without any senses other than his hearing and touch, Louis tries to create an image of his surroundings in his head. He is aware of his body being shifted and his head being laid on something firm and slightly warm, but he feels cold hard ground beneath his palms. The air is cool on his skin. Someone is with him, and whoever it is is being silent. He can't tell who, but he thinks it could be Liam. Who else would care enough to be there right now? 

 

Suddenly, Louis distinctly feels a large hand lay on his shoulder and give him a small shake. 

 

"Louis..." 

 

The voice is familiar, but his head is pounding and it's too difficult to attach the sound to a face. He's trying to open his eyes and regain his consciousness, but the more he tries, the more painful it becomes. 

 

 

Then, another soft hand rests lightly on his forehead, then slowly shifts down to cup his cheek. The touch feels nice against his skin, gentle and careful. He feels the fingers then move softly across his cheekbone to the side of his face and slide through his hair. Who in the hell could this be?

 

"Louis?" 

 

He feels himself beginning to wake up. It's a slow process, but Louis gradually begins to ease into consciousness, regaining control of each of his senses, one by one. After blinking a few times to adjust to his blurry surroundings, Louis is fully conscious. The first thing he sees is green. 

 

His eyes widen with shock when he recognizes those heart lips and the fair skin, and the dark, buoyant curls styled messily around that face. His face. All Louis can do is stare, in both shock and awe, his heartbeat pounding erratically in his chest. Harry is leaning over Louis curiously, but an expression of surprise is written all over his features. He's frozen; his hand still in Louis' hair, holding him gently while his head is resting on Harry's tight-black-jean-clad thighs. All he can focus on is the beautiful, light shade of green that is staring down at him without break. After what seems like an eternity, but in reality is a moments hesitation, Harry quickly withdraws his hand and makes a small cough as he averts his eyes, like he was caught doing something he shouldn't have been. Louis' heart rate slows to it's normal pace and he makes an effort not to seem distraught by the loss of contact. 

 

"Louis? A-are you alright?" Harry is looking down at Louis, his voice careful and soft.

 

 

"Y-yeah, I think," he mutters dazedly. 

 

 

Harry seems especially alert as Louis begins to lift his head from Harry's legs and carefully sit up, his skull throbbing as he adjusts. He's in so much pain still, that it feels as if his entire body is aching--bruised and cut up. Harry watches him with attentive eyes as he brings a hand to the back of his head, wincing. His head spins with the jolt of pain, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing in deeply. He feels Harry place a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

 

"Careful," Harry orders, his voice firm. 

 

Louis looks up at him. His eyebrows are knitted together and his lips are pressed into a tight line, a look that you would see on someone who is concentrating on something very hard. He let's his hand fall from Louis' shoulder, but his eyes do not fall from his face. Louis thinks that Harry might actually be concerned, but he's too dazed to think too much about it. Instead, he notices how Harry's looking at him strangely, like he's been slightly put off by something.

 

"What happened to you?" Harry questions cautiously, his bright eyes staring down imploringly into Louis'.

 

Louis knows that it probably would not be a good idea to tell Harry that Ryan had thrown him around and beaten him up like it was nothing, mostly for the reason that if Ryan found out that he had snitched on him, their next encounter would be even worse than their last. The thought of that makes Louis nervous. 

 

 

He realizes that he is just blankly staring at Harry's plain black shirt that he has on under his windbreaker and deciding what to say for an unusual amount of time and he snaps out of his imagination, a heat creeping into his cheeks. Harry is looking at him intently with curiosity. He's leaning towards Louis and his eyes are narrowed slightly and staring at him with an intensity that feels almost penetrating. Louis squirms a little, fidgeting with his hands out of nervous habit and wondering what he should say. He panics. 

 

"I-I was walking and, like, my head, um, I--"

 

"What I meant was who did this, Louis." Harry interrupts.

 

Louis hesitates for a second, and then looks at his lap embarrassedly, crossing his legs. "Ryan." 

 

There's a moments silence. "You're talking about Ryan Shoemaker, the one on my team?" Harry asks, suddenly sounding more tense than before. 

 

Louis looks up, and Harry's eyes are focused on some point beside his head, his lips twisted into a frown as he chews the inside of his cheek. 

 

"Yeah," Louis sighs defeatedly.

 

Harry's looks back to Louis, and he stares him dead in the face. As his eyes shift observingly over Louis, he can feel himself blushing. Why does Harry make him feel like that, all hot inside? 

 

Harry looks like he's concentrating; his brow furrowed and tongue darting across his red lips as arm lifts and his long, ringed fingers reach out tentatively to touch his cheekbone, as carefully as if he were made of paper. The contact sends a pulse of electricity through Louis' veins, and is gone quickly when Harry retracts his hand. Louis thinks he can see blood smeared on his fingertips. Sure enough, when he brings his own hand to his face, bright red blood is stained on his fingers. He notices the same color on the floor. When he lifts his eyes again, Harry is watching him. 

 

"Is that all he did to you?" His voice is deep, and somehow rough but smooth at the same time. Louis thinks he could listen to it forever. 

 

"N-no." He looks down, his ears becoming hot. 

 

After a quiet moment, Harry says, "Will you show me the rest?"

 

Louis doesn't want to, he really doesn't. The newly formed blue and purple bruises probably just make his stomach look uglier, and he is certain that his back and hip isn't any better. He can't even imagine how bad his cut up face looks. The room is quiet, and Harry is still looking at him, but he can't bring himself to look back as he slowly lifts the front of his blood splotched, favorite striped shirt over his head and clutches it tightly in his hands. The air is like ice against his newly exposed, bare skin. He instinctively wraps his arms around his bare stomach out of self conscious habits and looks away, hot tears pressing behind his eyes for a reason that he doesn't even know. He is so exposed, and so weak in front of Harry like this. It is so uncomfortable and he feels ashamed of himself without knowing why. 

 

Not a sound has been made, and Louis embarrassedly looks up, just for a second, to see how disgusted Harry must be. But Louis sees how his eyes are wide as they stare at his battered torso, and how his eyebrows are pulled together and how he's chewing on his lip in a way that seems painful. The look on his face makes it seem like Harry is actually hurt by Louis' own wounds. Louis is so still, his heartbeat pumping in his ears and sending waves of pain through his head, but he doesn't even notice. He's too concentrated on covering up as much of his body as he can. But then, Harry's arm reaches out, and Louis watches, wide eyed, as his fingers gently brush against Louis' arm, signaling for him to stop hiding himself. With hesitation, Louis uncrosses his arms from in front of his stomach and places them by his sides, now not sure what to do with them. His face is burning and he can feel Harry's eyes on his body, when the silence is finally broken. 

 

"Louis..." It's almost a whisper, but he can hear the pain in Harry's voice. Louis doesn't understand. 

 

"Is that...everything?" 

 

Louis bites his lip hard enough to keep the tears in and shakes his head, turning his back towards Harry to show the rest of his bruises. He hears a quiet gasp, and flinches when soft fingertips touch the sore area at small of his back, where Ryan had kicked him. He holds in shivers as Harry's fingers move with a touch as light as a feather over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he stops, Louis quietly turns back to Harry, who stares at his lap for a while before saying anything. 

 

"Why did he do this to you?" 

 

It's a simple, and harmless question, but images of the evening before in this same locker room with Harry, and everything they had said to each other came flooding back into Louis' mind. Harry was so unsympathetic towards him and it makes him fear what he would say if he told him the real reason. Louis can't trust him at all, because he hasn't given him a reason to. So the first thing that comes to his mind, he blurts it out without a second thought. 

 

"Why do you care?" 

 

It doesn't come out like he wanted it to; bitter and mean instead. Part of him regrets questioning him at all, because when he looks back up, he can tell that his words impact Harry. He takes in a large breath and his eyes hold nervousness as flick back up to meet Louis'. Louis feels guilty for sounding so harsh. He hopes Harry notices. After he quietly clears his throat and blinks, Harry answers. 

 

"I don't particularly enjoy seeing small boys beaten up and passed out on the floor," he says slowly. "So it helps to at least know what happened."

 

Louis doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, just sits there with his hands laying awkwardly in his lap, staring at Harry who is staring at him. 

 

"Now tell me why Ryan beat you up, Louis," Harry continues, regaining his confidence. 

 

Isn't it obvious enough? Louis thinks. Because he's gay. Of course it's because he's gay. That's always the reason. Harry knows it, too. Hell, he's even heard Louis say that he thinks he is attractive. So Louis figures that if Harry already knows, then there's really no point in saying anything more. But Louis does feel guilty, and maybe he owes it to Harry to just say it, especially since he stayed with him and waited for him to wake up. 

 

"Um...actually, he doesn't really take a liking towards me. Mostly because I'm gay," Louis murmurs quietly, looking quickly away and digging his fingernails into his palms. 

 

It's quiet for a second, and it makes Louis even more anxious. He looks up again to see Harry watching him, his lips slightly parted and brow furrowed, either with shock or interest. Then, all of the sudden, Harry is standing up, and holding out his hand towards Louis.

 

"Let's go," Harry says, and the look on his face is dead serious.

 

Louis hesitantly grabs his hand, now realizing how nimble and delicate and just large they were. It takes effort from both of them to get him standing, but he does, using Harry partly as a crutch. Once he's up, all of the blood rushes to his head and spots dance across his vision, causing him to stumble to the side a little. Harry's hands clamp onto his waist just above his hips to steady him, and his touch sends shivers down Louis' spine. It feels good, like Harry's hands were supposed to be there. 

 

"Okay?" Harry asks concernedly, his voice raspy and deeper than the ocean. 

 

"Y-yeah," Louis chokes, his head down, attempting to hide his flushed cheeks. 

 

Harry nods silently and let's go of his waist, leaning down to pick up Louis' gym bag from the bench. Then, Harry touches Louis again, and he feels even dizzier when he does. His hand rests on the middle of Louis' back and guides him as they walk out of the locker room--Harry taking extra care to hold the door for Louis-- and across the field and parking lot to a small silver car that Louis guesses is Harry's. He stops and fishes around in the pocket of his windbreaker, his curls falling over his forehead as he does. When he looks up abruptly, Louis jumps. 

 

"Do you have a car?" 

 

"Y-yeah, I drove it here this morning," he answers. 

 

Harry looks down and bites his lip, seeming like he's contemplating something. His fingers fiddle with the keys and make them create little clinking noises. 

 

"Is it alright if I drive you home?" Harry offers, but it's not phrased as a suggestion. 

 

"Yeah, sure," Louis nods, not having another option, but not wanting to turn this one down either. 

 

Harry nods once and steps to the opposite side of the car, opening the passenger side door. Louis follows him, awkwardly sliding into the seat. The door shuts and Harry goes back to the driver side, climbing in swiftly and switching his car on. After he buckles his seatbelt, he turns to Louis again. 

 

"Whereabouts do you reside, Louis Tomlinson?" 

 

"812, Brickstone apartments." 

 

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "By yourself?"

 

Louis nods, and Harry turns back to his steering wheel, a confused look still paired on his face. Louis wonders why this bothers him so much. The silence that falls between them makes Louis feel squirmy inside, and he becomes increasingly more self conscious as it continues. Harry's thumbs drum on the leather steering wheel, and Louis admires the delicate slenderness of his fingers. They're nice fingers. Very nice fingers. Louis' eyes begin to travel up Harry's long, muscled biceps and to his strong shoulders. His body is amazing. Louis can't decide if he's jealous of Harry's body or if he just wants it all to himself, to be able do anything he wanted to it. And Harry's face is just as breathtaking, with his excellent jawline, soft, fair skin, and stunning green eyes framed by thick lashes. His hair is buoyant and fluffy and it curls around his cheekbones and ears. Louis really wishes that Harry was just a normal student walking in the hallways of his school, or a cute boy that he would find sitting in the corner of a cafe reading a book. Then, he would be able to flirt with him openly and tell him everything that he's thinking in his head right now and can't say out loud. But Harry's his coach, and it's awful because he can't do anything, and it's physically painful to restrain himself. 

 

"This it?" 

 

Louis is snapped out of his imagination as they pull into his complex. He nods, and Harry's eyes lift back to the lot ahead, searching for his apartment number and a parking spot that would be closest to it. He finally slides into a spot directly in front of Louis' apartment, and twists the key out of the ignition. When he looks over at Louis, their eyes meet for a heated second before Louis looks at his lap again. 

 

"Would you like me to walk you in?" He asks, and it's so polite and innocent that Louis is surprised, but still melts a little inside. 

 

"U-um, I think that I can probably manage..." Louis mumbles awkwardly, struggling with his seatbelt. 

 

"Alright, then," Harry coughs and rakes a hand through his hair. "I'll see you at the next practice--if you're feeling any better, that is."

 

"Yeah, sure. Thanks for, uh, being--"

 

"Yeah, really, it's not a problem," Harry mutters, looking down at his hands and shaking his head sheepishly. Louis has never seem him act shy. 

 

"Alright," Louis says, climbing out of the car, carefully, so he wouldn't get dizzy again. "Thanks."

 

Harry mumbles a "yeah" before Louis shuts the car door and gathers his bags, walking with slightly pained steps towards his apartment. As he reaches the door to the entrance of his complex, something makes him look back at Harry. When he does, their gazes, cross paths once more, green on blue and blue on green. And as he turns back around and ascends the stairs to his apartment, the only thing on his mind is the question: who else is Harry styles?


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are still here cuz I know I have been like dead to the internet for a while; I loveee love love love all of you who are reading this right now, keep up the support (: thank you guys 
> 
> -B

The bruises on his face, across his ribcage, over his left hip, and the ones shaped as fingers around his arm are deep purple and painful to the touch. He can't see the back of his head in his reflection on the bathroom mirror, but it hurts enough that he knows it's bad. His cheekbone is cut open and is scabbing around the edges, another splotch of sickly purple blooming where he had been hit. He looks back at his reflection, sees the tears in his eyes, and that's when he realizes that he's crying. Ashamed of himself, Louis turns away from the mirror and wipes at his tears until they stop falling from his eyes. An alteration of Ryan's voice booms in his mind, "Faggots just don't play football. Faggots cry like little babies." He wills himself to calm down, and walks across the hallway into his bedroom, going straight into his clothes drawers to find pajamas. After digging around, he pulls on a pair of clean boxers and searches for something warm, since he never turns the heater on in his apartment to save money. He finds a large sweatshirt at the bottom of his drawer and puts it on, letting its sleeves hang over his hands and it's hem fall past his thighs. With that, he crawls into bed and tugs the fluffy duvet up over his shoulders, falling fast asleep with the images of a certain tall boy with a pair of beautiful green eyes.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

"No, Liam, I'm honestly just fine," Louis insists as he peels off his Nirvana t-shirt in the boys' locker room. 

Liam sends him a look that says 'you're obviously not "just fine" if you got your head bashed into a locker and the shit kicked out of you by a human tank'. Rollin his eyes, Louis tugs on his football jersey. 

"Have you forgotten that your whole body is basically black and blue?" 

"Fuck, Liam, do you think I've forgotten? Every breath I take is reminder enough," Louis scoffs, beginning to roll his socks on. 

With a shake of his head, the brown-eyed boy finishes tying his laces and hops off the bench.

"Don't be late again, or Styles is going to beat you even worse than Ryan did," he calls over his shoulder at Louis as he jogs out of the locker room. 

Hurriedly, Louis slips in his shinguards and pulls on his cleats in record time, doing his laces as fast as his fingers can manage. There's still one more boy in the room with him, with a panicked expression on his face as he scrambles out of the door, just before Louis does. He tries his best to sprint to the sideline where all of the players are stood in a row with Harry standing expectantly in front of them, hands shoved in the pockets of his windbreaker, but every step he takes, his head throbs and spikes of pain shoot down his spine and hip. By the time he reaches the end of the line, there are tears burning in his eyes. Standing beside him is Isaiah, who shoots him a pitied look. But Louis doesn't want his pity. He's convinced himself that he's okay. Harry is walking in his slow, long and elegant strides down the line, and stops in front of Isaiah. His eyes scan the row of players, but never once land upon Louis. 

"If you don't work hard this practice, you're not playing in tomorrow's game," he says, brutally honest, his green gaze hard and sharp, the way Louis was used to seeing it. 

"Understood?" 

All of the boys nod timidly. Louis watches as Harry eyes Ryan pointedly, his eyebrows furrowing and his lip curling into a frown. This makes Louis feel all weird inside, like Harry might actually care a little bit about him. But also, he's worried that Ryan will catch on, and find out that Louis snitched on him. Hopefully, Harry can keep it subtle so that he doesn't. 

"Isaiah, lead warm ups," Harry orders, an just like that, everyone is scrambling into place and hurrying to get in line. 

As Louis goes to follow his team, practically hopping on one leg, a large hand lays on his shoulder. He can't say he didn't expect it. Turning around, Louis looks up at Harry expectantly, with a bit of a scowl on his face. He wants to play and show Ryan that he's not some baby who will sit out of practice just because of a few bruises and cuts. Harry's grassy green eyes stare down at him, his eyebrows knitted together assertively as he drops his hand. 

"You need to sit out," he demands, an Louis enjoys how his voice is so deep and rich, but he's not going to sit out. 

"No," is all he can come up with, distracted by the way Harry let's out a huff and pushes his hand through his curls frustratedly as he says it. 

"Get your arse on the bench, Tomlinson, before I put it there for you," Harry growls, his cold green eyes narrowing into slits. 

Louis feels shivers snake down his spine as he briefly twists Harry's words into his own fantasy. A blush rushes to his cheeks as he realizes what he's doing, and Louis quickly averts his eyes, limping reluctantly and pathetically over to the bench, mostly to hide his face, that is now a bright pink. When he plops down on the bench with a pained grimace, Harry is watching him intently, with somewhat of a defiant smirk tugging up the corner of his lip. Louis glares at his lap and sits still for what seems like forever, watching Harry the entire time instead of the field as he paces across the field with his deliciously long and toned legs, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and brows furrowed with strong concentration as he watches every move made by the players carefully. Louis watches him as he yells out orders, his lips perfectly pink and his slow-as-molasses accent visible as he speaks. He watches him when he rakes his fingers through his curly hair and tugs at the ends ever so slightly. Louis wishes he could do that for him. The whole practice, Harry is all that Louis pays attention to, and it's nice that way. 

Finally, Harry summons the team--who rush over to him with an embarrassing eagerness--with a simple wave of his hand, and they form a neat circle around him. Harry looks like their king. He speaks to them with an intense and serious look on his face, doing gestures with his big hands that look intimidating. After a few minutes of his lecture, the players jog over to the bench where Louis is sitting patiently, each of their faces looking rather pale and stricken. He guesses that Harry must have been tough on them. The boys grab their water bottles, Liam shooting Louis a sorry look, and quickly file off of the field and into the locker room. Louis stays though, because he needs to ask Harry something. He wants to play in tomorrow's game so fucking badly, because he knows that he's good enough to help the team out, and they could use it. Louis hoists himself off of the bench and winces on his way to the center of the field, where Harry is hunched over his phone, holding it so close to his face that it almost bumps his nose. He must be blind or something. When Louis stops in front of him, he doesn't even look up. Only when he clears his throat stubbornly do Harry's eyes flick up to meet his, their pure, stunning green enough to make Louis momentarily forget what he was going to say. He gathers his thoughts after a second of just standing there with his mouth open like an idiot and tries to sound assertive. 

"You're going to let me play tomorrow, right?" He says, jutting his hip out to the side and placing a sassy hand on it.

An expression comes across Harry's face where his eyebrows furrow and his nose scrunches up a little and it's probably supposed to make him look irritated, but to Louis he just looks fucking cute. 

"Why would I?" He retorts, glancing back at his phone. 

Louis immediately dismisses any thought about Harry being adorable and frowns in disbelief at his rudeness. 

"Um, because, I can," Louis replies sassily enough to make Harry look up from his phone. 

"Oh, really?" He says, raising an eyebrow. "Because last time I checked, you couldn't even walk two steps without wincing." 

For a second, Louis stops, because that statement could possibly be quite true, but he decided to continue on for the sake of his argument. 

"Well I can now," Louis snaps, annoyed when Harry rolls his eyes. "And therefore, I am playing in the game tomorrow."

With that, Harry finally looks up from his phone, his eyes now focused solely and intently on Louis, and somehow it makes his skin crawl and he feels like he is so transparent that Harry can see right through him. He notices a small smirk curling up the corner of Harry's mouth, a shadow of a dimple showing. 

"What makes you think that you're the one in charge?" He says, his voice so deep and surprisingly quiet, now. 

Looking into his eyes is so intense that it feels like looking into the sun, so Louis has to look away. He isn't sure what to say at all, and he has found that that never happens to him unless he's talking to Harry. 

"Um-" 

"I'm your coach, Louis Tomlinson, and I can make you do whatever I want, do you understand that?"

Louis feels breathless, and Harry's smirk is still planted on his face like he enjoys condescending Louis. Which Louis knows he does, because it's not the first time that he has done it. But Louis never knows how to react, or how he should feel when Harry does this. Sometimes it turns him on, actually, which is kind of insanely embarrassing. 

Harry doesn't wait for him to respond. But something changes about him, his shoulders drop and his eyes soften for just a moment, and he looks a little exhausted. 

"Listen, Louis, if you're going to be stubborn, or whatever, just...like, rest up and take care of yourself, alright?" He says with a sigh. "Then tomorrow if you're better, I'll think about letting you play." 

"W-well, fine," Louis says, almost snappily. "I'm perfectly fine, anyway, though." 

Harry rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Right." 

But before Harry can boss him around or turn him on any more than he already has, Louis spins on his heel and struts away, trying desperately hard not to limp because he knows that Harry is watching. And with that, Louis snatches his water bottle from the bench and walks straight through the door of the locker room without a second look back. Tomorrow, he's not going to care about whatever Harry want him to do, because someone needs to teach him that he isn't in charge of everyone. And Louis figures that he can be that person.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without further wait, chapter 5! (:

It's in the last ten minutes of the second half. Louis feels the most frustrated that he has ever been in his life as he watches the opposing team move the ball effortlessly straight through both the line of midfield and the line of defense, achieving their second goal easily. And he also feels sorry for Liam, because he really is trying to save the team, but they just don't know how to play together. Louis knows that if he was out there, he could do so much more for the team. And when Louis looks over at Harry, who is crouching near the sideline with his lips in a tight line and his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of anger and contemplation, he thinks that he knows it, too. So being the stubborn and persistent person he is, Louis pushes himself off of the bench and approaches his coach with confidence in his step. 

"Coach Styles, I'd really like to actually play now," he says in a mock tone of politeness. 

Sensing his presence, Harry looks up at him with those penetrating green eyes, standing from his crouch and instantly going from a foot shorter than Louis to a foot taller. Something about this change and the way that his coach is sizing him up makes Louis' confidence waver. When he speaks, his voice is low and challenging. 

"If you are so insistent, then why should I put you in?"

Louis doesn't take more than a second to regain control. "Because I can score," he retorts simply, yet with an attitude. 

By the narrow in Harry's green eyes and the way his heart lips pucker as he chews at the inside of his cheek, Louis can tell that he's at least contemplating it. 

"How many did you score last season?" Harry finally questions, a doubtful tone in his voice. 

"Twelve in eight matches," Louis replies, trying to hide his pride. 

Harry hesitates, his eyes locked on Louis with an uncertain look for so long that Louis almost thinks he's going to send his arse right back to the bench. 

"Go in for Isaiah," he orders quickly, like he's afraid he'll regret it later. "If I am disappointed, you owe me."

Working desperately hard to keep a straight face, despite his joy and relief, Louis jogs to the half line and waits eagerly for the assistant referee to call him in. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins before he even steps foot on the pitch, and something just tells him that he is going to do well. And he was right. 

After only two minutes of being in play, Louis scores a goal. A beautiful one, at that. It was off of a counter attack; he executed a clean give-and-go down the middle with Stan around the last defender and drove the ball straight into the back of the net for their first goal in the last eight minutes of the game. He doesn't even need to look over at Harry to see his reaction, because he already knows that it's exactly how he would've wanted it to be. 

Just minutes later, an opposing defender bobbled with the ball just yards from the box, which Louis stepped up and swiped from right under his feet, easily finding the left corner of the goal with a clean shot and achieving a tie. 

And--even though he himself didn't score--with three minutes left in the game, Louis performed a series of foot skills and maneuvered around three defenders like he did it in his sleep, then dishing a perfectly placed, perfectly paced cross off to the left striker who was able to take a one time shot for the win. He was nearly bursting with self pride as the final whistle sounded. Both teams jogged to the half line, forming two lines as they walked past each other and shook hands with the opposition before returning to their respective benches. As Louis followed the team as they crowded around Harry at the end of the game, he received a few pats on the back from those of his teammates who were actually decent people and not appalled by his homo/bisexuality. This time, when Harry spoke to the team, he actually bothered to listen.

"Hey, pay attention," he commanded over the chatter of the upbeat team, but he didn't sound harsh now. "After this game, I have realized your potential as a team, and your potential as individuals, as well. So now, I expect more of you," he adds, his green eyes pointedly finding Louis' in the crowd. "Keep it up." 

The speech--if you could even call it that--was so brief that it was now apparent how hesitant Harry was to give a compliment...to anyone. It may have been small, but it was enough to impress Louis. He didn't think he had it in him. 

"No school tomorrow, therefore, no practice. See you all on Monday, don't be late."

And the team breaks off into their cliques, exchanging back-slaps and comments on the game with one another as they begin slowly filing into the locker room to get their stuff and get the hell off of school grounds, ready to start a weekend of partying. So Louis finds Liam and Isaiah and catches up to them as they begin heading towards the locker room, too. When he approaches, he gives Liam and Isaiah each a clap on the shoulder. 

"Good job, lads," he compliments them with a smile. "I'm so ready to get out of here." 

Liam turns to him and gave him a knowing look. 

"I know. The midterms right now are killing me." 

"I'm really just in the mood for--"

"Tomlinson," a booming voice calls out from the field behind them just as they were about to enter the lockers. 

Louis' heart either drops or jumps--he isn't quite sure--when he hears Harry calling for him. Part of him is nervous, and the other part is confident, but definitely, one part overrules the other. Needless to say, it isn't the latter. He gives Liam and Isaiah a smile--that was supposed to be apologetic, but probably ended up looking like a scared grimace--and says goodbye before turning around and walking towards his coach, who stands near the bench, shoving his things into his duffel. Louis' stomach twists as he stops in front of him, but he forces himself to put on a brave face. 

"Yeah," he says, but it's not sassy or mean, just neutral this time. 

When Harry finishes packing and zipping up his duffel, he stands up tall and looks down at Louis, with a thinking look on his face, pulling his eyebrows together and his lip between his teeth. And now Louis feels his heart racing all over again, because every single time Harry looks at him, it never fails to take his breath away. And now he realizes that Harry was speaking while he was staring, and feels his face get hot. 

"U-uh, sorry, I missed that," he stutters, trying to seem casual even though his red cheeks are probably giving him away. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Harry repeats, and Louis is slightly taken by surprise by this question. 

"Y-yeah, I think so," he answers after a second, playing with his fingers. 

"Your bruises are gone?" 

"Um, no, actually, but they don't hurt as much," he says quietly, avoiding Harry's eyes because he finds himself getting embarrassed about the whole situation. 

He got beat up because he is gay and pathetic, and then Harry had to come save him like he was some damsel in distress, and he just feels like he is so weak and defenseless, and it's really mortifying. But the way Harry's acting towards him doesn't make him feel embarrassed, and he is kind of grateful for it. 

"Yeah, good," Harry mumbles absently, his eyes slowly moving around Louis' face. "This is looking better."

Louis' whole body seems to become electrified as Harry reaches his hand out and gently touches Louis' healing cut on his cheekbone, like he doesn't give it a second thought. Then his hand drops, and Louis tries not to stare at him as he stands perfectly still and breathes a "yeah" in reply. In this moment, Harry's mossy eyes are softer than he usually gets to see them, and Louis tries to make it last, but after a moment, they harden back into their usual piercing green. 

"You know, your persistent attitude can be quite admirable at times," Harry says, voice deep and husky in a way that has Louis fighting shivers. "But if you're not careful, it will get you into trouble." 

Louis doesn't know what to say, or if he can say anything right now, because Harry has this look in his eye that he can't even explain, but it's alluring and hot and it makes Louis confused and tingly inside, and something about his word choice sends shivers down his limbs. He desperately struggles to sound like he has it together as he frantically creates a reply. 

"I like to think of it as more of a harmless, yet aggressive way of living," Louis retorts quickly, mentally applauding himself for his clever response. 

He doesn't know when it happens, but suddenly Harry is leaning in closer than before, so close that Louis can count each individual golden fleck in his green eyes and smell his peach and vanilla scent. And just like that, his heart is racing at one hundred miles an hour again. His eyes are narrowed, with that same observant look that they always seem to have, and his pink bottom lip is caught between his teeth again. When Harry speaks, his voice has that usual rough edge, but is soft and calm at the same time, enough to make Louis' insides churn. 

"You have a lot of nerve, Louis Tomlinson."

The words themselves are challenging, but the way he says them doesn't sound like a threat, but like a compliment. An actual compliment, given to Louis from Harry. Louis stands frozen with shock, partly wanting to hide himself someplace, and partly with fear that if he moves one muscle, the whole moment will end. And of course, he has to just stare with wide eyes as Harry's tongue darts quickly across his lips. 

"Interesting boy," Harry mumbles, as if he were talking to himself, and he normalizes the distance between them, either to Louis' relief or disappointment. 

When Harry starts to grab his duffel bag and sling it easily over his shoulder, Louis can finally take a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. But then Harry's sharp eyes are down on him again, seeming to stare straight into his very soul and existence. 

"I'm impressed, Louis Tomlinson," he says, and Louis blinks up at him. 

As Harry turns his back on him and turns briefly to call something over his shoulder, Louis waits in anticipation. 

"Don't be late on Monday." 

And he's gone.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna reiterate that these first couple of chapters are definitely not as good as the ones to come - I think it's cool to watch how my writing gets so much better though, and I think you'll like the outcome once the story starts moving :) love uuuu -b

It's Monday afternoon and Louis is sitting in his last hour classroom, foot tapping impatiently against the tile floor as he tediously watches the hands on the clock. His history teacher is blabbing on about how they have "two precious minutes" left in school to do their homework, but Louis and everyone else in the room knows that it's complete bullshit and that no one actually does their homework anyway. He has been waiting all day and he's tired of school and just wants to get out of there. He doesn't know why he is so eager for class to end, but he just is. Okay, maybe he does know why. But it certainly doesn't have anything to do with him being a little bit excited to see his coach at practice today. 

The bell finally rings, and Louis grabs his stack of books and rushes out of the classroom. Walking to his locker doesn't take as long as it usually would, because for one, fortunately, Ryan is not present, and also because Louis's moving much quicker than he normally would as he hurries through the halls. It's odd, but he's excited, even if he doesn't know why, and he can't help it. He dumps his books carelessly into his dumpster of a locker and somehow manages to fish his gym bag out of the bottom, shutting it with a slam and heads towards the locker room. When Louis sees Liam waiting for him outside the door, he's already smiling brightly. 

"Hey, Li," he greets the brown eyes boy, who gives him a look, but nonetheless returns his smile. 

"Hey, Tommo, what's with the good mood?" He questions with a grin. "I mean, good for you and all, but what's up?"

Louis shrugs as they push through the door.

"How dare I be happy to see you, Liam," Louis says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 

Liam puts his hands up as if to surrender, a smile on his face. Louis smiles back, and then faces into his little corner of the lockers and begins to strip, modestly, of course. It's still intelligent to be aware of the several homophobes on his team that might be present in the room with him, and who would probably not be very pleased if he flamboyantly flung his clothes off like the rest of them. As he straightens his practice uniform, he thinks about how sad it is that he has grown into the habit of hiding himself all the time just because he likes guys. Like, so what, it's not like any of the dickhead anti-gay dudes in this school are enough to impress him anyway. 

Liam shoots him a warning look before rushing out of the locker room, and Louis already knows he's probably going to be late again, much to his disappointment, and fear. So he goes extra fast as he laces his boots and he flat out runs through the door of the locker room, surprised when he isn't the last panicked player in the room. 

When Louis steps out onto the pitch, he spots Harry right away. He looks especially tall as he stands off to the side by himself, squinting with his face practically pressed to his phone. The fact that Harry appears to be slightly pigeon-toed somehow makes him seem more endearing than Louis knows he really is. But in all honesty, Harry is looking good. Like, he always looks hot, but today, he just looks so sexy. His hair looks especially soft, like it would feel like a cloud if you touched it, his lips look so full and heart shaped and perfect for kissing (or other less innocent purposes), and the green of his eyes is especially vibrant, yet somehow still soft. 

Louis knows that it is probably so obvious that he's staring at Harry, so as much as it displeases him, he looks away and quickly makes his way over to Liam and Isaiah who are chatting casually about something near the bench. The two smile at him as he approaches. 

"Hey, Louis," Isaiah greets him warmly. 

"What's up guys?" 

Liam rolls his eyes and sends Isaiah a look. 

"Isaiah was just educating me on a few of the more explicit details of his and his girlfriend's weekend together," he says, his nose scrunched up cutely with disgust. 

Isaiah laughs with a smirk, holding up his hands. 

"Don't hate me 'cause you ain't me," he smirks. 

Louis let's out a laugh just as they hear Harry call out from the center of the field. It would've been hilarious watching the way that everyone tripped over themselves to get to Harry, except Louis isn't stupid and he isn't one of Harry's minions.

So he stands at the back of the huddle, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, even though he's secretly still a little bit excited to talk to Harry, like he has been ever since he gave Louis his first compliment after Friday's game. But Louis won't express that. 

"Today, we're going to be doing fitness," Harry states, running a hand through his hair. 

Multiple groans are heard from the small crowd, one of them being Louis', and Harry's eyebrows immediately furrow. 

"You're out of shape, so you're going to do it," he snaps, and everyone visibly cowers but Louis. 

Harry, now obviously agitated, takes a step towards the group of players and jabs a finger at Ryan Shoemaker. Surprisingly out of character, Ryan flinches and leans away from Harry, as if intimidated by him. Louis almost laughs out loud. 

"Answer me this, Ryan," Harry asks cooly, his finger staying in place. 

Actually, seeing Harry get after someone like this is kind of hot. Louis finds himself mildly turned on before he can think to stop himself. 

"You're all big and tough, right?" 

Harry doesn't give Ryan time to answer.

"You think you are the strongest boy in this school, correct?" Harry questions, his eyes narrowed. 

"Well can you run sprints for an hour straight?" 

The look on Harry's face is dead serious, but the look on Ryan's is petrified. The poor kid doesn't dare open his mouth. 

"Would you like to find out, then?" Harry asks him threateningly. 

This time, Ryan timidly shakes his head, and Harry pulls away, facing the group again, his green eyes like fire. 

"You all want to be good football players, don't you?" He asks, testing. 

The boys, including Louis, nod rapidly. 

"Good. Because if you don't, you can walk your ass off my field," Harry spits, his eyes like daggers as he glares at the team, stopping to look pointedly at Ryan. 

"Get on the goal line." 

___________________________

 

Louis has always been a pretty fit guy, so it comes as a surprise to him when he is so completely exhausted after the team's intense session of conditioning. He doesn't think he's ever worked harder in his life. His legs feel like literal noodles. But looking at how some of the other guys are laying in puddles on the grass, he guesses he's pretty well off compared to them. Plus, doing all this fitness can only do good things for his body.

Practice is over, so the team naturally gravitates over to Harry so that they can be dismissed. Harry sits on the bench with his elbows on his knees waiting for them. Louis wipes the sweat from his forehead and pushes his stringy hair out of his face, catching Harry's eyes as they watch him, his lip caught between his teeth. Heat floods to Louis' face and he keeps his head down, looking at his shoes as he joins the huddle, listening to Coach Styles give his post practice mini-speech. 

"Ehm, I know you all don't like doing fitness," he says, his gaze shifting over the small crowd. 

"But if you're not in shape, you'll always lose," he says bluntly. 

"So, um, we've got another game on Wednesday, and as you know, don't be late. Or else you'll find yourself sat on the bench." 

When Louis looks up, his eyes immediately lock with Harry's. For a second, it turns into a little staring contest, but Louis doesn't look away only because he becomes entranced by his beautiful Harry's eyes are. Probably the most beautiful ones Louis has ever seen, even though he feels squeamish and slightly self conscious under their stare. Harry looks at him like no other person ever has. When he looks at Louis, it's like he is staring right into his very soul, into his thoughts, analyzing his every move. It's like Harry can tell which emotions Louis is feeling just by looking at him; he is attentive to his reactions. Harry is the only one to ever make Louis feel so transparent, and it's scary and interesting at the same time. 

Louis finally breaks the contact and shifts his eyes back to his feet, his cheeks growing hot, thanks to Harry, once again.

Standing up from the bench, Harry waves at the group dismissively with one hand, running the other through his hair. 

"You can go now," he says over his shoulder, beginning to grab his things already. 

Louis moves to grab his water bottle and almost follows the crowd into the locker rooms before he remembers something. Ever since Harry complimented his game on Friday, Louis has had high hopes for becoming captain. Not because he's cocky, but because he thinks he did do good, and he was captain for all the years before he played on the school team. So it's just natural for him to have high expectations for himself. And he just wants to know the answer to a perfectly harmless question: when do they find out who the captain will be? Now that he's thinking of it though, maybe he shouldn't. Going to Harry for once instead of Harry coming to him might portray Louis as maybe a little desperate, and he can't have that. Not that it matters, since he and Harry have no romantic relationship whatsoever. Nope. But one question can't hurt, right? Especially since the answer could possibly benefit Louis. So he might as well.

Acting as nonchalantly as one could, Louis grabs his water from the bench and walks up to Harry, who is bent over and stuffing his things into his coach bag. Louis tries desperately not to look at his butt, except he's Louis, and of course he has to. 

Clearing his throat, Louis makes sure to stand a fair distance away from Harry and not seem like he was just peeking at his ass, even though he knows that Harry will instantly read the way his cheeks are slightly flushed with embarrassment and know that he was. 

Harry stands up straight, and his towering height instantly makes a simple question seem like a much more difficult task than it should be. And the way his eyes have a sort of mischievous gleam and how his pretty heart lips hold a smirk to match is certainly does not help. 

"Um, can I ask you a question?" Louis asks, attempting to sound as casual as possible and to hide his hesitation. 

Harry's grin grows, a shadow of a dime poking through his left cheek. 

"You just did."

His voice is low and husky, just like it always is, but hearing it directed straight at him makes him like it even more. And the fact that he might be giving into Harry not even half way through their conversation makes him even less sure of himself. But somehow, he gathers the courage to pull off a sassy reply. 

"Whatever," Louis rolls his eyes. "Tell me when we'll find out who the captain is."

Despite Louis' attempts at being demanding, Harry just seems amused, raising his eyebrows and rocking forward on the heels of his boots. His smile isn't quite as shit-eating, but still. It's annoying. 

"Who said I was doing captains?" Harry asks, his eyebrows pulling together. 

Louis resists the urge to scoff or kick him, he isn't sure which. 

"Well every other coach in the world does," he remarks sassily, dangerously close to being rude. 

Harry can sense his brittleness, his eyes slightly narrowing. When did he get this close to Louis? Louis doesn't remember him ever taking a step towards him. He's near enough now that when he speaks, Louis can smell his spearmint mouthwash, and he can feel his own heart rate speeding. It's so loud in his ears that he knows that Harry has to have heard it. 

"I'm not every other coach," Harry replies cooly, his eyes sharp and anticipating, waiting for Louis' next mistake. 

It's obvious that Harry can sense that Louis' temper is wearing down, he can tell by the way his little hands are clenched and how his eyes flick impatiently around him. If he's not careful, he could say something that might not be very smart. And Louis is aware of that, just too irritated to care. 

It takes Louis a second to know what he's going to say, and he has to regain his breath and cross his arms before talking. He knows it's a bad idea, and he really wishes he had someone in his head to stop him from saying it, but he does it anyway. 

"Yeah, you're more of a dick."

The second the words tumble from his mouth, Louis regrets them. Harry's eyes widen slightly and they burn like fire into Louis', his nostrils flaring. Louis is so terrified of Harry just then, he literally thinks that he is going to kill him. That is, until his infuriated expression suddenly relaxes into a smug one. Louis can't even believe what's happening when Harry's hand lifts towards Louis' face. For a scary moment, Louis thinks Harry is going to hit him. But instead, Harry's fingers move up to Louis' hair and brush a few loose pieces out of his face. 

"You're so irritable," Harry says. "Cute."

He said it so casually that he might've been saying it to himself.

Louis' jaw is probably hanging open and his eyes are probably as wide as the ocean, but he is frozen. He watches, still in shock, as Harry turns around and slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, running a hand through his hair. 

"See you on Wednesday," he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. 

Then, Harry winks at him. Louis can't even move. 

What the fuck?


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UR COMMENTS ARE SO NICE OMG KEEP IT UP WITH HE KUDOS TOO YOU GUYS ARE SOGOOD 
> 
> PS I LOVE YOU GUYS AND UR SEXY 
> 
> PPS THE ENDING REALLY SUCKS SO HERES A WARNING AND AN APOLOGY IN ADVANCE 
> 
> ___________________________

Usually, Louis isn't this nervous before games. For the past thirty minutes, while the team has been warming up, he has found himself completely distracted. He doesn't even know what he is distracted by, he just is. He can't focus on anything at the moment, and it's getting to the point where he has started to worry that it might affect his game. Maybe it's all the pressure that's throwing him off. Now, he feels like he is expected to do well, not just by himself, but by his team and Harry, too. He knows that he has to have a good game today, so he will just have to find a way to get his shit together before the starting whistle blows. 

"Hey, Tommo, you alive?" Isaiah asks, abruptly slapping Louis on the back. 

Louis jumps, his hand instinctively flying to his chest in surprise. He blinks a few times and looks around, to find that the team is already heading to the bench to hear the starting lineup. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, he jogs to the sidelines to catch up, Isaiah following beside him. 

"Yeah, just a little out of it," he replies honestly, taking his place at the back of the crowd that is gathered im front of Harry. 

Even though he knows that it won't help his mind stay on track and focused, Louis just has to sneak a look at Harry for probably the hundredth time today. Of course, he is looking stunningly hot, as always, in his gray zip up jacket and snug black jeans. His green eyes are alive and focused, red lips moving slowly as he speaks, his body bent over the whiteboard as he scribbles examples over its surface, explaining every concept intently. Louis can tell that his coach is passionate about what he does, even though he might not act like he is. He senses that Harry doesn't like to show that he has any feelings about anything. It piques his interest a little. 

Louis jolts back to reality when he hears Harry include his name while he lists off the starting eleven. 

"...Tomlinson as attacking center midfield, and Isaiah as striker," he finishes, wiping off the board with his sleeve and standing up straight, his gaze shifting over the group. 

"This team is better than any of the others you've ever played against," he says in his deep voice. 

"It only takes one of you not playing your hardest to let the whole team down. Don't disappoint me, and don't disappoint your team."

Harry's eyes fall upon Louis' as he finishes the last word of his sentence. His face is blank, and it's difficult decipher the feeling behind his stare, but his body seems to tremble nonetheless. Licking his lips, Harry looks away from Louis and waves a hand towards the team, non verbally ordering them to take their positions on the pitch. Louis begins to make his way onto the field with the rest, but a large hand catches his wrist before he walks a yard. He looks up to see intense green eyes staring into his and pretty heart lips only inches away from his own. 

"I'm counting on you," says that thick voice, speaking heart-stoppingly close to his ear. 

Then, the hand releases him and gives him a nudge on the back, sending him, bewildered and short breathed, onto the field. Louis stares, wide eyed at the intimidating looking team standing menacingly on the other side of the halfway line, and he wishes he could have had more time to prepare, or that he could just dissappear. He was already off his game today, even before Harry just had to go and add on to his stress and be so damn distractingly gorgeous and seductive. The second the whistle blows, Louis is extremely disoriented, and he already knows that everything is all downhill from there. 

___________________________

He was right. Only twenty minutes into the game, Louis finds himself lying facedown on the grass, surrounded by officials and teammates, and feeling completely lame. He isn't a doctor or anything, but judging by the pain he feels at the moment, he is pretty sure that his knee is diagnosed with a severe case of jacked up. A small part of him is glad that the left center defender on the opposing team had decided to recklessly smash his cleated foot straight into the front of his knee as they battled for a cross ball, because they were losing and he was playing like shit anyway. But the majority of him wants to just saw off half of his leg. 

"No, man, it looks broken or something," someone says. 

"I don't know, but it's like, totally sideways." 

"Get the coach over h--oh."

Louis feels the searing pain spiking out from his knee and bites back the tears that spring to his eyes. He can taste grass in his mouth, and it's really gross, but it's the least of his worries. Ond hand is cradling his knee as he rolls ungracefully off of his face to see his leg. Isaiah, Liam and Stan are among the few huddled around him, who also include the main referee, and the guilty looking idiot who knocked him down. 

It hurts to the point where he is biting aggressively at his lip to keep the tears in, but it's nothing he's never felt before. He's hesitant to do it, but he takes a quick glance down at his leg. It is swollen pretty bad, with bleeding cleat marks beside his knee where he was kicked and an ugly dark bruise already forming. And he also does notice that his kneecap is slightly out of place, just like someone had said it was. He has to look away before he cries just from taking one glance at his injury and embarrassing himself. 

His eyes scan the small crowd, and he almost has a small heart attack when he sees that Harry is crouched right beside him. Louis wonders how fast Harry got over there, or if he thinks that Louis is being a complete baby, or if he might be worried for him. He can't focus on anyone else. Harry's lip is caught between his teeth and his eyebrows are drawn together in concentration as he checks out Louis' knee, taking on a look of concentration. Louis notices that he is breathing out of his nose steadily and how chest moves with his inhales and exhales. He takes a naive guess that Harry ran across the field to get to him. 

Then, Harry's hand reaches out, and before Louis can think, he flinches away when Harry's long fingers carefully prod the sore area, his frown deepening. Louis can feel the tears building and sniffs once in hopes that they could recede back into his tear ducts. The last thing he wants is for Harry to see him cry now. Harry's green eyes shift up to meet Louis' glassy ones, and he slowly withdraws his hand from his knee. Louis watches how slow his lips move when he speaks, and listens to how his low voice is slow to match. It's very calming and sweet for Louis and reminds him of molasses.

"Can I help you stand?" He is asked, and Harry is looking at him. 

Louis takes a sharp breath in through his nose and nods, holding in a grimace as he shifts his hurt leg in front of him so he can sit upright instead of lying on the grass like a dead animal. Harry comes around so that he stands facing Louis, his feet on either side of Louis's thighs, and extends an arm out to him. Louis can feel people watching them, and it's a really uncomfortable and awkward position for them to be in, especially in front of both teams and spectators. But Louis takes his hand anyway, and he can feel Harry's strong grip around his him, his long fingers wrapping almost twice around Louis' entire hand, dwarfing it in his own. Harry's other arm slips around his waist, supporting Louis' weight. Louis feels his face getting hot, but he allows himself to be pulled up by Harry's strong, certain hands and arms--and just his whole body is strong and Louis can feel it, hard and sturdy against him as Harry's hold on him never once loosens, even when Louis is standing upright. He doesn't yet dare to put weight on his weak knee, but he knows that he'll have to if he ever wants to leave this very spot on the field. Which he probably wouldn't mind, his self conscious adds slyly as he leans against Harry's shoulder for balance. 

Sharp green eyes flick down at Louis for a brief moment before they look back up and find the referee. 

"I can take care of it from here," he says, surely. 

He opens his pretty cherry-red lips to speak again, but the referee cuts in before he can speak, a risky move that one would only dare to do if they didn't know Harry enough to play it safe. Agitation is evident on each of Harry's facial features, but the man seems not to notice and interrupts anyway. 

"If it is necessary to seek medical attention, I will need to be notified right away," he says curtly, waving dismissively at the small gathering of players, signaling for them to leave. 

Harry's lips tighten into a line, and Louis, for a moment, fears that he might start something with this scrawny, balding middle-aged high school football official, but to his surprise, he does not say one word back. Instead, he looks down at Louis, his face softening a little more than it had been seconds ago. 

"Can you try walking?" He asks, and Louis probably winces at the question as much on the outside as he had been on the inside. 

He nods because he has to, and because he isn't sure that his voice would be as calm and collected as he is trying to seem. He can feel Harry's grip on him loosen slightly, allowing Louis to shift and set his other foot on the grass in front of him. Slowly, Louis leans his weight onto his leg, only getting so far as one half of a step before a shooting pain blossoms from his knee, searing up and down his limb, and he almost collapses on the ground, his lips parted in a silent, pained yelp. Tears well up in his eyes, and he panics because he can feel himself wanting to cry so badly, but he won't cry in front of everybody. 

Harry is instantly there, though, catching Louis by his sides, his fingers pressed into his ribs, holding him steady. Louis is biting his lip so hard to keep himself from crying as Harry moves beside him, his arm slipping around Louis' back again and allowing him to ease the pressure on his knee. He lets Louis use him as a human crutch, and they walk off the field together, Harry setting Louis carefully on the bench so he sits sideways, his knee propped up. Louis can feel the eyes of some curious teammates on him, the others smug. Like they are happy he was hurt. Hot anger builds up in his chest, but when Harry leans down to his level and Louis can really get a good look at his face--his thick chocolate curls and mature bone structure and beautiful, pure green eyes--it vaporizes. Before he hears Harry speak to him, he hears the game resume. 

"How does it feel, Tomlinson?" 

Louis hides the look of disappointment he almost gives when Harry uses that name for him again. It seems kind of formal, or maybe just hostile in a way, even though it probably isn't meant to be. 

He looks down at his uniform shorts instead, shrugging his shoulders very half heartedly. It feels fan-fucking-tastic, Coach Styles, he wants to sarcastically yell, because that question is literally so stupid. He was just on the verge of crying and wanting to amputate his entire leg, so what the hell is he expected to say to that? Okay, maybe he's a bit of a drama queen, but it's all the same. 

"Not very well," he answers, a snippy undertone in his voice that he hopes Harry doesn't catch. 

It's really silent for a second. He gives a quiet sniff and keeps his eyes down until Harry speaks again. His voice startles Louis, because it's quiet and strict and almost scary. Which is absurd, because no way is Louis scared of Harry. 

"Listen, Louis. I'm trying to help you here, so just quit being stubborn for one minute and just cooperate," he hisses, his voice lowered so the other players can't hear. 

"Now answer my question without being a smart ass," he hisses. "On a scale of one to ten, one being good, ten being bad. How does it feel?" 

Louis gulps, finally surrendering. He doesn't dare to meet Harry's eyes as he answers quietly. 

"Six and three quarters," he almost whispers.

He doesn't dare look up at Harry then, but he can tell that he is just staring at him, in that squinty-eyed, observant way that always sends shivers crawling under Louis' skin. And he isn't sure yet if it's in a good way, or a bad way. But now, he sees Harry turning his head away from him, focusing his steely gaze on the game instead. Louis has no other option than to avert his attention to the game, as well. He watches the ball ping around from foot to foot and bodies clash together in a battle to win possession, and feels selfishly relieved when he finds that his team is doing even worse without him. At least it means he doesn't suck balls at football. 

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" 

Louis looks back over to Harry, who has apparently decided that Louis actually exists, and has chosen to grace upon him the privilege of engaging in conversation. But the question isn't an easy one to answer, because Louis doesn't really trust himself to not be overreactive like he always is. 

"I...I don't think so," he finally says, tilting his head a bit to the side self-doubtingly. 

Harry doesn't seem to like his answer, seeing as his straight eyebrows pull together in a frown. 

"Can you walk?"

"Well, yeah. Kinda." 

And now, Harry's letting out a huff and running his long, ringed fingers through his hair, tugging slightly on the ends where they curl into tiny ringlets before letting his hand fall into his lap. When he turns back to Louis, his lips are pursed into a little heart shape. 

"D'you need a ride home? Can you drive? I could drive you," he says, and it sounds like a real, casual offer, and Louis really thinks that it is nice. 

And the good thing is, he really does need a ride home, because Liam was going to take him to the mall after the game to go shopping for some more of Louis' precious Vans, and he doubts he can walk all the way through the whole fricking mall. That thing is, like, miles long. And he knows Liam will pick him out the right ones, anyway. 

"Y-yeah, that would be nice," Louis mutters, suddenly not being able to handle the pureness of Harry's green eyes. "Thank you," he whispers right after, almost so quiet it was nonexistent. 

He doesn't know if Harry heard it, though, since he just turns back to the game, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and looking out into the field. And Louis is kind of in shock, because Harry was just nice to him. And he was just nice to Harry. And what has this cruel world done to him? Since when does Louis kiss ass to extremely mean football coaches just because they have curly hair and grassy green eyes and dimples and are nice to him only once or twice? He decides that it's really not fair, because he would've liked to continue hating Harry. It was easier that way. But also, very, very impossible at the same time.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all of you Wattpad users reading this rn...YES IT IS ME BELLA IM REALLY SORRY FOR FREAKING SOME OF U GUYS OUT I KNOW THAT PUBLISHING ON AO3 WITH ABSOLUTELY ZERO WARNING WAS DUMB AND SUSPISH AF BUT THIS IS ME, BELLA/LARRYS_FEDORA. IM SO GLAD SOME OF YOU GUYS CAME TO ME AND WERE CONCERNED ENOUGH TO WANT TO LET ME KNOW THO. I LOVE U GUYS SM UGH LIKE BE MY BFFS

Louis' knee looks ugly and grape-popsicle purple and so far sideways that he isn't even sure if he can call it a knee. Also, he's sat in the passenger seat of Harry's car. Again. For the second time in a week. He can't help but wonder, why is he even in this position? Why does he have to be the one whose football coach is gorgeous and who gets beat up because he is gay and hurt all the time and ends up sitting in the passenger seat of his hot coach's car on the way to his apartment (which, he's only in high school and shouldn't even have an apartment but his parents kicked him out so he had to)? What in the actual hell has happened in his life to put him in this very situation? 

It's because he's gay. He knows it. Because if he weren't gay, his parents wouldn't have kicked him to the curb when he came out at only eighteen. And he wouldn't have told Harry that he thinks that he is attractive, and he wouldn't be staring, completely flustered, at Harry when he starts moving his pink, pillowy lips and actually talking to him in his endearingly slow, deep voice. And Louis shouldn't even think this; he shouldn't think that the way Harry speaks like he has all the time in the world is completely adorable, and he shouldn't think that his face looks just so nice and pretty, and he really shouldn't want to touch it but he really does. 

"You'll have to go to the doctor tomorrow," he says, so patiently that it sounds like he took great care in choosing each and every word. 

Even though the statement is completely obvious and a little random, and Louis is ninety-nine point nine percent sure that he could've figured that one out on his own, he suddenly realizes how not mean Harry is being. He's not mocking him, or speaking out of malice, or ordering him around just to be in charge. He is actually making a kind, and helpful suggestion. Louis has caught the briefest glimpses of this side of his coach before. Like in the locker room, when he and Louis had that really awkward moment where Louis may or may not have said he was hot and Harry may or may not have pushed him against a locker and demanded that he tell him 'what the fuck his problem is' and then apologized after Louis basically called him a dick. That moment was pretty steamy to say the least. Or that other time, where he found Louis in an unconscious heap on the floor of the locker room and was all nice and careful touches and soothing words with him. Yeah. Good times. 

"Yeah," Louis manages to reply, after using a short and awkward cough to fill the silence that he had accidentally created. 

It's quiet again, so Louis looks out the side window at the familiar streets that he knows lead to his apartment complex. But just watching random people bustle around the sidewalks with grubby, wide eyed toddlers, or little scrawny dogs, or their spouses at their sides gets boring, so Louis peeks back over at the drivers side of the car for just a second. Or it starts out as just a second, at least. 

And Louis really wishes that he could fall for those dark, chocolate curls that wisp around Harry's head, and for his cheeks that always seem to be tinted with a lighter shade of the soft strawberry that colors his lips, and for his grassy green eyes that remind Louis of old dusty book stores and quiet, flowery meadows and cold winter nights with warm blankets and hot chocolate. But he knows that this charade is all to easy for him to believe. Because he's seen how those green eyes can turn from honest and sincere to threatening, and so sharp that if looks could kill, Louis would have a fatal stab wound right through the middle of his head. He's seen how Harry's long limbs and towering height can turn from innocent to intimidating and have Louis cowering under his broad-shouldered, lean frame. He isn't sure if it's comical or scary how quickly it can switch like that. 

Louis almost jumps from his seat when Harry's head turns towards him, and the face that he was ogling at from the side is now full view, staring right at him with those cushiony, pink lips and that artistically angled facial structure. It seems that Louis was too busy drooling over his coach to notice that they had pulled to a stop in one of the parking spots right in front of Louis' apartment building. And what is he supposed to say? What does he do? He should probably stop staring now, though, that's for sure. Any second, now, he's going to stop staring. Any second. Maybe in a few moments. Or never. Or he could just--

"I'll help you in, then," Harry is mumbling, and his long legs are stretching out of the car and he's shutting his door behind him, and actually coming over to Louis' side. 

Harry takes a brief moment to open the back door and retrieve Louis' gym bag, holding it casually with one finger as he shuts the trunk and makes his way around the car. He's opening Louis' door now, and his curly head is peeking into the car and glancing at Louis expectantly. Louis has to blink a few times, but then he remembers what's going on and lets Harry's long fingers wrap around his entire bicep, and feels himself being almost lifted out of the passenger seat and onto the pavement. Well, that took almost zero to no effort on his part. Not that it matters, though, because Harry's arm is coming around his shoulders, and he's basically giving Louis a one-sided hug while he tows him along towards his apartment entrance, Louis' knee dangling along like a dead weight the entire way. Thank god that his apartment is on the first floor. 

As they walk through the entrance (well, as Harry walks through the entrance, Louis just limps), Louis focuses on trying to remember what number his room is instead of how dizzy his head is getting because of the slight pressure of Harry's fingertips against his hip. He points them in the right direction, and it may take a little bit longer than probably necessary, but Louis is finally standing, propped up against Harry's shoulder, before his apartment door. His mind is having trouble processing what happens next, and he desperately tries to ignore how there's still the heavy weight of an arm across his back and how the top of his head only comes up to Harry's neck, and have mercy, because he can even feel the steady puffs of Harry's warm breath ticking his skin. And how is it even humanly possible for one's hand to almost span the entire width of Louis' ribcage? Louis has so many questions and feelings and confusions buzzing around in his brain that he almost doesn't hear that low voice when it speaks from way above him. 

"D'you have a key?" 

Oh. 

"Shi--shoot," Louis begins, cutting himself off before he can continue. "Right, uh, they're in my bag, top pocket." 

Harry gives him a curt nod, then his hands are both on Louis' waist, and he's putting Louis next to the wall so he can balance himself on one sturdy leg while Harry retrieves his keys. So Louis just stands there, trying not to seem shocked or turned on at all, even though being moved around and manhandled like he just was makes him feel exactly that. 

After a quick second, Harry is stood back up to his normal height, Louis' keys in the palm of his extended hand. Louis blinks and takes them, purposely trying not to make physical contact with any part of Harry. He turns suck towards the door, and then proceeds to twist around and jam the key--quite gracefully--into the hole, jiggling it vigorously for a few embarrassing seconds before the door flies open, and he almost falls in after it. Smooth. 

Coughing awkwardly, Louis regains his balance and takes a hop into his apartment, suddenly feeling the bite of karma for being too lazy to clean the place. It's not completely awful, but there are sweatpants and large t-shirts and miscellaneous socks and Sierra Mist cans (not Sprite, because Louis finds those to be just, ew) scattered across nearly every random surface that is visible. 

He isn't sure if Harry is going to follow him in or not, or if he should invite him in, so he turns around and faces the door, using a hand to brace himself against the frame. When he looks at Harry, he has to kind of tilt his chin up to see him, and it makes his stomach twist a little because he maybe really likes how tall Harry is. And he also really likes how the rest of him is, too; all long, lanky, muscles and broad shoulders and large hands. Really nice to look at. Harry's standing outside of his door, still, and Louis internally frowns when he puts his hands behind his back, hiding them from his view. But that's okay, because Harry is talking now in his low, rough voice, and looking intently down at Louis with eyes that make even a simple glance feel intimate. 

"Um, unless you've gotten permission from a doctor or something, don't come to practice tomorrow expecting to play, alright?" 

That one's easy to cooperate with. At this point, he doesn't even want to think about standing on his knee. Or even looking at it. So he nods simply, and notices how Harry's face falls into a little bit more of a relaxed expression, probably relieved that Louis didn't try to fight back with him. Louis coughs and glances at the floor. 

"Yeah, I'll probably get Liam to take me to have it checked out tomorrow," he says, and wonders if he could possibly say anything less conversational. 

He doesn't look up at Harry, but can see him nod. What does he say now? It's Harry's turn to talk, but nothing's happening and there's an awkward silence filling the space between them, and those are the things that Louis hates the most in the entire world. There's an itch beneath his skin, because he can feel Harry's eyes on him, which he didn't know was even possible. Maybe he should say something else, or just rudely dismiss him with a door in the face just to show how he still is the same sassy bitch he was a week ago, even if he does have a sideways knee. But then after that, he'd probably feel a little guilty and a lot like making it up to Harry by kissing his pretty lips. And then--

"I'll see you soon, then," Harry says, and it sounds very kind. 

He's back to being nice again. What the hell? What happened to the other Harry, the one that was fun to play with and make really angry? The one that forced Louis to admit that he thought Harry was attractive a few weeks ago, the one that pushed him against the lockers and was yelling at him in a way that was really scary and really hot at the same time? Now, Louis believes that he is catching another glimpse of the soft Harry. The one that called him cute when he was mad and touched his hair, the one that gives him rides home when he's hurt, the one that handles him gently and asks him if he's okay when he's not feeling so okay. But Louis likes the one he's seeing right now, so he can play nice. 

"Yeah," he answers, and it comes out a little quieter than he wants. "Thanks for, you know, um. Helping me and all." 

And there's a sweet, sincere smile on Harry's face, and a dimple on his cheek. Louis swoons. 

"It's good," he says calmly. How deep does his voice get? 

"Try and be more careful, Louis."

He uses Louis' actual name this time, instead of his surname, which is such a minor detail, but it still has his heart stuttering in his chest. 

"Seems like you're always getting hurt," Harry adds, and a smirk tugs up one side of his lips. 

"And I won't come in and rescue you every time. So just stay out of trouble for a bit, yeah?" 

It's a little embarrassing, but also true, so Louis nods sheepishly at the ground anyway. He can't think of anything good to say, so he just lets Harry say a quick and quiet, "goodbye", and then he's looking at the back of his curly head and watching his long legs carry him around the corner, out of his sight. Louis shuts the door smiling.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loveeeee you guys. Again, better writing becomes more frequently present as the chapters go on so don't quit on me if you're like, "ew, bad grammar and immature descriptive diction" and wanna dip outta this fic asap bc I promise it gets better  
> -B

On Saturday when Liam drove him to the doctor, she said that Louis has a twisted knee. She also said that he must be in a lot of pain, and that is quite true, but also extremely annoying since she then proceeded to jab at his leg harshly with her latex-gloved fingers. Which, why would she even need latex gloves if she's dealing with a twisted knee and not some highly contagious disease patient or a toxic lab subject or something? But, yeah. It sucks. 

She made him schedule an appointment for the next day so he could come in and get it "readjusted", and that is an intimidating word. After she said that Louis got kind of scared and didn't really want to go back. Liam had to talk to him about how he would never be able to make it pro if he kept his knee all zig-zaggy for the rest of his life. After this conversation, being the strong, fearless male he is, Louis made the decision to schedule it anyway. He told himself it was for his own good. 

And no, he wasn't nervous at all the next day when he hobbled back into the doctors office with Liam after signing paperwork and sat down on that squishy table, if you were wondering. And no, he most definitely did not cry when the doctor walked right in and jerked his knee practically out of its socket and shoved it back in without giving him any of that gassy stuff that makes you see crazy shit and not feel any pain. Nope. Not a single tear shed. Liam didn't even have to hold his hand (okay, maybe). But even if he did cry, it was okay, because the doctor that day was a fairly attractive middle-aged man who let him have a lollipop from the jar by the latex gloves that he kept eyeing throughout the appointment. And also Liam got him a pint of Ben and Jerry's Milk and Cookies ice cream, which sparked the augment over whether the cookie or cream is better in an Oreo. Louis had mostly forgotten about his knee by the end of the day. Until Liam, of course, had to pull the crutches out of his closet after they had gone back to his house and finished watching Ouija with their ice creams, and ruin Louis' entire evening. Louis can be really stubborn when he wants to. He has a real talent for that; the only problem is, Liam knows his tactics too well, and convinced him to wear the crutches for the next week by taking advantage of his weakness and telling him how he wouldn't play football ever again if he didn't. 

Louis slept over at Liam's that night, after "aggressive icing", as Liam also insisted upon, and lots of scary movies. He sort of begins to think of Liam as a parental figure, which is a bit creepy and sad at the same time. But he figures it's okay, because Liam is his best friend and he loves him very much. Before they fall asleep on the couch beside each other, Louis tells him just that. 

-

Monday comes, and despite his many tantrums and protests and big-sad-blue-eyed looks, Louis ends up in the parking lot at school. He stomps out of Liam's car, as best as one can to on crutches, and mean mugs anyone who even turns to face in his direction. Liam has already caught up to him, lugging both of their book bags in his tank arms (which further agitates Louis, because he really wants to be buff, too, but Liam won't tell him his methods). 

"You know, you're not getting very far on those, Lou," Liam remarks like the smart ass he is from beside him. 

"You think I don't know that, Liam?"

Louis watches Liam struggle with their backpacks to hold the door open for Louis. He wants to laugh, but he's in a bad mood. 

"Someone's in a bad mood." 

Louis points needle eyes at Liam before resuming his painstaking quest to first period. 

"Yeah, well it's your fault."

Louis is like this for the rest of the day. Everyone keeps asking him why he's on crutches and he settles for the briefest, least-inviting explanation he can think of, hoping that they get the message to shut the fuck up. And if they give him a dirty look behind his back and talk about what a dick he is, he doesn't give a shit. That's their problem, not his. 

"Woah, Louis, bro!"

Louis is walking in the middle of te hallway, but he is still ready to turn around and smack whoever is speaking to him over the head with a crutch. Now that he thinks of it, his crutches could be actually useful for violence purposes especially. But as he turns around, his glare lands upon the familiar tan face and bleach white teeth that belong to Isaiah. 

"You're on crutches. Sweet," he says quietly, a smile on his face as he lopes over to sling an arm around Louis' shoulders.

Louis knows that Isaiah is a genuinely nice kid, and that he is just being friendly, and that kind of softens him a bit. He allows a small smile to sneak onto his face as he hobbles towards his locker as un-awkwardly as he can with Isaiah's arm around his shoulder. 

"Yeah, not so sweet when you're the one on them, though," he retorts sarcastically. 

Isaiah barks a short laugh and releases Louis when they reach his locker. Liam is already standing there waiting for Louis, both of their backpacks slung, heavy and painful looking, over his shoulder. Louis can't decide if he just looks angry or if he has a buttplug in or something. Either way, it's pretty intimidating. 

"Oh, hey, Li," Louis chimes, trying to keep his tone light. "Thanks for carrying my bag, pal." 

Louis thinks he sees smoke puff from Liam's ears. 

"Yeah, no problem at all, pal," Liam hisses venomously. "I've been waiting here for almost ten minutes. When you said you were going to the bathroom, I didn't think you meant a half hour journey."

"Hey, it's hard to get around on these things."

Louis waves a crutch at Liam for emphasis. 

"You lads are going to be late to practice-I'll just meet you there, yeah?"

Liam practically stomps away with a grunt and shuffles down the hallway towards the locker rooms, Isaiah offering Louis a confused and pitiful look before following after him. 

A good fifteen minutes later, twice the time it usually takes him to get there, Louis is on the field. Except the part he doesn't like as much is that he's on the bench this time, watching, instead of playing. It's fucking pathetic. You know what else? Louis might even get fat, too, with all this sitting around. He could loose his beloved bubble butt to this stupid knee injury. Even though he only has a week left of recovery, it's still scarily possible. He shudders at the thought of being flat-assed. 

Louis pulls his windbreaker around himself so he can zip it, and also yanks the beanie that Liam left for him on the bench before practice (poor kid can't hold a grudge) over his head, because it's fucking cold. And his legs are dying in these fucking tight-ass jeans. When Louis leans over to get the seam of the pants out of his ass crack, one of the crutches that was propped on his legs falls to the grass with a soft clatter. 

"Mother fucking shit bitch f-"

"Having some troubles?"

Louis is halted by a deep, almost mocking voice rumbling from behind him. He stops kicking the fallen crutches and whips around, a glare already poised on his features as he meets that familiar green stare. He isn't sure how long his glare will last, though, what with Harry looking how he does. Looking how he always is. it's hard, really, trying to keep up with the witty, independent, indignant side of himself when the other side of him is too busy drooling over those wet, red lips and broad shoulders and the eyes. The eyes are the ones that really get him. They're his enemies. 

Louis' foot jerks, snapping him out of his trance, and one of the crutches has now been successfully kicked another inch away.

"No," he replies pointedly, watching as the left corner of Harry's lips twitches with his response. 

Something about Harry looks different today. Not his curls--those are styled in their usual haphazard, yet neat mass of chocolate curliness. Not his face--it's still painfully perfect. His clothes aren't anything unexpected, either, just a pair of sinfully tight, black jeans, nike tennis shoes, and a winter jacket. He's even got his usual coach-y duffel bag slung over one shoulder. It's got to be something, though. Something is definitely different, Louis just has to figure out what. 

"Mmm," is all Harry answers with, the twitch in his lip widening until he's finally smirking, and a dimple appears. 

He's setting his duffel bag down on the grass, now, beside the bench where Louis is sitting. He has no option but to just watch as Harry stands straight again, towering so tall that Louis has to tip his head back to see his face again. At this angle, it kind of looks like there are wispy clouds peeking out of his curls. For a short second, there's silence between them as Harry gazes out at the field, watching the team zip their jackets and make random spastic moments to keep warm, and Louis just watches him. But then, Harry turns back around, quite abruptly, and just like that, his eyes are focused right on Louis. Just the way he is looking only at Louis makes it feel a bit like a ray of light singling him out, and the rest is simply darkness. 

"So, what's the story with your knee, then?" He asks, and his voice is low and languid as usual, but it holds a hint of something playful. 

Louis sees it in his eyes, too, which are light green, and soft, and that's when he realizes what is different. Harry's not being a bitch today. He's not being that guy who made him stay after practice and do sprints, and pushed him up against the lockers, infuriated and intimidating. He's being the same person who held him and cared for him with gentle fingertips and strong arms while he was bloody and battered on the hard tiles of the locker room floor. The same person who Louis knows is capable of smiling real, genuine, dimply smiles and being playful and not being a hard-ass all the time. He doesn't know what had made Harry decide to be different today, but Louis likes it this way. It's just that he is not having a great day, himself. And it's a bit annoying. 

"One week," Louis says shortly, his tone dangerously on edge. "The doctor won't let me play for a week."

He waits for Harry's reply, busying himself with bending over almost painfully to reach for the kicked crutches. His fingers barely brush the metal and he huffs frustratedly. Harry, who stands above him, arms crossed over his chest but expression contrarily still holding a teasing glint, moves the crutches an inch closer to Louis with a nudge of one of his nikes. Louis looks up, his glare faltering. Harry looks like a fucking god, with his hair effortlessly, perfectly curling in around his jawline, the angles and curves of his face and the strong limbs of his long body fitting together to create a human masterpiece. It makes Louis angry for the same reason that it makes him want, so badly. He snatches the crutches up hastily and sets them on the bench beside him, looks away and sniffs. Why is it so fucking cold? It's barely even December yet. 

Harry replies with another hum thing that Louis is coming to find he does a lot. 

"Sucks, mate."

He says it in a way that sounds like a joke. Louis' eyes narrow down at his feet. He doesn't find it very funny at all. So Louis gives Harry a taste of his own medicine and replies with a short, sarcastic hum of acknowledgment. 

"Yep. 'S real funny, Harry." 

Harry snorts. Louis sniffs agitatedly. At least he didn't get yelled at and flung against a locker for using Harry's first name. He stuffs his frozen hands between his thighs in attempt to thaw them. He'd much rather keep his fingers from freezing off of his hands than continue to get irritated by an attractive person. 

There's movement beside him, but he stubbornly doesn't look over. Harry is rustling in his bag, he can tell, but when he comes back and stands right in front of Louis, forcing him to finally look up at him, he sees that Harry's holding a jacket in one of his hands and not looking Louis in the eye, for once. It seems like he's purposely avoiding eye contact. He tosses the jacket in Louis' lap and runs his longlonglong fingers through his prettyprettypretty hair, tongue swiping quickly across red lips. Louis catches a whiff of lavender as the jacket lands on him, and stares up in shock. 

"Here, you'll freeze in just that," Harry says simply, and then he's striding onto the field. 

Louis watches him go with wide eyes, watches as the players straighten their posture and shut their mouths as he approaches, feels the fabric of the jacket sitting in his hands. Smells lavender. How can the Harry who has the ability to silence crowds with a single word, or intimidate any given individual, including Louis, with a simple glance, be the same Harry who can be so caring and gentle with those green eyes that change from sharp to soft within an instant? Is he like that with other people? Louis has to wonder, he has to know if he's the only one who has caught a glimpse or two of this different side of Harry, or if he's the only one who Harry has bothered to show it to. He naively hopes that he is, but recognizes the facts: that he probably isn't. He isn't special; definitely not to Harry, who he is almost certain hates him most of the time. He cuts his hopes short before they can grow too large, because he has to be careful. Harry is beautiful and tempting, but Louis needs to keep his fucking wits about him. Louis is a strong boy, and he is in control of his own emotions. (Right?) He can't surrender to Harry's ability to lure him in. He won't. 

(In other words, he does.)


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm reading fanfics for inspo rn so try me know of your favs bc who doesn't love a good fanfic amiright

"I am very fine, Liam, but thank you, for the millionth time."

"I just thought maybe you need a break, you know--"

"No, Liam," Louis sighs exasperatedly. 

"I love you though," he tags on sweetly, loping around to sling an arm over the boy's muscled shoulders. 

Liam has a pouty face on, but it's okay, because he's not actually mad at Louis. Even if he was, he would forgive him in the blink of an eye, anyway, so there's really no point. Liam never stays mad. It's just his nature: to be kind and gentlemanly and not dwell on the wrongs of the past, but rather the rights of the present. All that sappy shit. 

Louis also knows that Liam likes to watch out for people. He's always flying around and worry worry worrying about everybody and making sure that every little thing is okay and in its specific little place. That's the only part about Liam that can easily become agitating, especially when he's been trailing you around like some lost puppy, desperately, and repeatedly asking if he can carry your bag or, "do you need a break?" like he's been doing to Louis for what seems like the past hour. And they're not even walking anywhere far, just around the hallways and to the field. Plus, Louis is now fully healed and ready to return to the game. He doesn't need any assistance, thank you very much. 

He doesn't think he's ever been more excited to touch a football in his life. It's Wednesday--he's been out for a week and a half, which really isn't that long for a typical knee injury, but it feels like it's been ages since he's had a ball at his feet. He's really missed the feeling of the grass crunching beneath his cleats, and the adrenaline of being in the game pumping through his veins like an addictive drug. It's his only hobby, too, really, football is. It makes him sound like a lowlife loser to admit it, but he doesn't have much better to do. Not a family, not a nice, decent paying, full time job (just his once a week shifts at some lousy Irish pub called Dingy's to cover the rent), not a boyfriend. Not even really any other gay boys around that he could just have a little bit of fun with - it seems like everyone around him hasn't fully accepted his homosexuality, or even attempted to accept it at all. 

But it doesn't matter, though, because Louis simply doesn't care. He's tough, he can act, so if he was ever upset, nobody would even have to know about it. As of the moment, however, all he cares about is that he's lacing up his boots, and he's wearing his cold-weather-football-practice-outfit (his warmup joggers and a hoodie), and that he's stepping out onto the turf again, finally. The winter air bites unforgivingly at his cheeks, but this time, it's the good kind, because he's not just sitting like a useless log on the sidelines, freezing to death, but he's on the field again, freezing to death. 

Liam is definitely staring at his leg for any signs of a limp--which, Louis can take care of himself, thanks, Liam--so he puts an extra bounce in his step just because he can. Now, a ball is rolling to a stop at his feet, and he looks up to meet the wide smile of Isaiah. Louis can't help but grin back as he passes the ball back. 

"Hey, bro, nice to see you," Isaiah says, flashing a thumbs up. 

"Yeah, you too, mate," Louis smiles. 

Isaiah has always been one of the few people that Louis likes, and who likes Louis in return. It's nice; they're good friends in school, but don't do much together outside of it. Liam and he do, though, and must be closer than Louis thought, since Liam is ditching him for Isaiah, practically skipping over to go see him. Two timer. 

Louis, now abandoned and standing idly by himself, looks around, looks around, looks around, and stops dead in his tracks. It's like his brain just blurs out everything that surrounds him but Harry, like he's the only thing worth looking at. It's not surprising that Louis' eyes are so drawn to him--especially when he's wearing those tight jeans that seem to extend his endless, toned legs, and when he's got those green eyes, even greener than the grass beneath Louis' feet, focused right in on you, exactly like he's doing to Louis. A sudden icy shiver erupts in his bones and he pulls his beanie further down over his ears, forces himself to look away.

Louis makes his way over towards the goal, where Isaiah is at the penalty line, just absolutely firing shots off at Liam who dives around in the net like some insane superhero, saving shot after shot. He's glad to have them both on his team, because frankly, he'd be scared to play against either of them. 

"C'mon, Liam, you gotta let him score at least once," Louis jokes as he approaches. 

Isaiah ceases fire and turns towards him with a smile that's bleach white against his tan skin. 

"I know, right? Un-fucking fair." 

Just then, they notice that everyone is beginning to shift towards the sideline, gathering around in a semi-circle and orbiting around none other than Coach Harry Styles himself.

"Better not slack off now, Tommo," Liam warns as he begins heading towards the huddle. "Styles has been a real hard ass since you left." 

Louis frowns, wondering what the hell that is supposed to mean. He brushes the comment off, following them, but still making sure not to be last there. Just in case. Harry's standing there, leaning slightly to the right like he always seems to do, something that Louis thinks makes him resemble resemble a crookedly constructed tower. Or a sculpture, more like, because towers aren't that pretty. His curly hair is even wilder now, the cold dampness lingering in the air causing it to coil into tight little ringlets below his ears and underneath his sharp jaw. He raises his head, looking up only once everyone has gathered around him, his eyes briefly scanning the group before that almost unnaturally green stare lands straight on Louis. Louis' heart beat instantly spikes high, sending electric jolts through his veins. Harry looks away, and it's gone. The fact that his body reacts so quickly to Harry is quite alarming to Louis. 

"We've got an important game in two days, and it's really, um, necessary that we prepare for that in the best way possible," he starts, his voice rumbling through the silence. 

"We'll get all of the fitness done today, then."

Louis waits for the chorus of less than enthusiastic groans and bitchy whines (those of which he would usually participate in, before he learned better) but only one person, Ryan, dares to let a sigh slip. Louis internally shakes his head, while simultaneously trying not to laugh. Harry's going to flip shit on the poor kid. He knows. He's been down that road, oh yes. 

"I'm sorry, I think my hearings been off lately," he hears Harry say, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Did you say something?" 

Louis bites the inside of his cheek and looks up, seeing Harry's lips drawn into a taught line and his jaw set, wearing an intimidating expression that Louis has seen before, but that still has his knees buckling. Something about angry Harry makes him feel weird. He's leaning towards Ryan, arms crossed over his chest and staring him down, waiting for him to take the bait. If looks could kill, there's no doubt that Ryan would be long gone. 

"No," Ryan answers after a tense silence, obviously trying to keep his cool, but the crack in his voice giving him away. Some tough guy, he is. 

Harry waits for a beat, his eyes sharply focused in on the boy like a predator would do to its prey. Then, he straightens back up and turns away from the group, taking his long strides, heading towards the locker rooms. 

"Put on your running shoes," he orders, continuing to walk away. "We'll be in the gym."

Everyone begins to follow Harry, so Louis goes along, making a face when a kid lets the door hit him instead of holding it while he walks into the locker room. Rude. Harry must already be in the gym waiting for them, because he's not in the locker room while they all change out of their cleats and into their tennis shoes. Isaiah and Stan are having complaining session about how much Harry's been working them lately and how it's not fair because they have a game in two days and they should be practicing. Louis just ties his shoes and raises his eyebrows, playing it safe and not saying anything. The last thing he wants is to talk shit and get put right back on that bench again. 

Louis and Stan are the first ones done, so they ditch the others and get to the gym, almost the first ones there. Not a surprise that Ryan's beat them to it. That kid has got some serious ass kissing to do. 

Louis looks around for Harry, and almost chokes when he sees him. He's wearing a pair of basketball shorts, tennis shoes, and a muscle shirt. A muscle shirt that Louis really doesn't think he can deal with right now. Because even if it's long sleeved, the way it's clinging like that to his arms, the way it shows the perfect amount of strong, lean muscle that is now flexing as he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair--it is just not fair at all. Not fair. How is Louis supposed to hate Harry when he's wearing a godforsaken muscle shirt and is literally the hottest man he's ever laid eyes on? 

Louis must've been staring at Harry's upper body for too long, because all of the sudden the entire team has already arrived at the gym and he is still standing in the same spot, and hasn't even noticed. He looks away quickly, with a self-depreciating head shake and turns to stand next to Liam in the huddle that's been assembled around their coach. Louis forces himself to avert his eyes when Harry raises a thumb to the corner of his mouth and drags it along his lip. 

"Run a lap as a warm up and meet me in the weight room after," is the only order that Harry commands before turning his back and starting towards the said weight room. 

Louis just follows the pack from there, trying not to get trampled as the group of over-achieving, hot headed jocks power through the crowd as if there was a million dollar prize for the first to finish. Louis doesn't race them because it's stupid. He's quite sure that he's got his priorities set straight. 

They funnel into the weight room as instructed, and as if on instinct, Louis instantly spots Harry in the room, leaning against a piece of equipment so casually that it is confusing how he still manages to look like he belongs in a magazine. He speaks to the group briefly, explaining to them how they should do mainly lower body lifting and how if he spots you slacking then he will not hesitate to have a "friendly chat" with you. As he says that, his eyes flick to Louis for a short second, silently reminding him of the "friendly chats" he and Harry had not too long ago. He fights to suppress the shiver that jolts his spine at the recollection. 

Harry clears his throat and finishes with a wave of the hand. "Okay, you can go," he says dismissively. 

Louis' first instinct is to go and find Liam and Isaiah so they can do a group work out or something--Louis refuses to exercise alone--and he starts to walk away to seek them out. Before he can go far, a low voice from behind him interrupts. 

"Not you," Harry says, and Louis is certain it's directed at him. 

He turns back around and tilts his head back slightly to look up, and is met with a pair of green eyes, much closer to him than he had expected. All of the sudden, his words get lodged in his throat. He swallows heavily and hopes to God that his poker face is working. 

"Why not?" It comes out less self-assured than he would have wanted, but he is surprised that his mouth is even functioning when Harry is standing this close, looking like that. 

Harry raises a finger to his face, and Louis finds himself following the movement as he drags it along his jaw absently. 

"'S too early to be putting pressure on it," he answers simply, eyes flicking downwards. 

"On what?" 

Harry looks back down at him, giving him a funny look. 

"Oh, right, uh. My knee. Sorry." 

Louis wants to slap himself. Fucking idiot. He's really fine though, he knows he could do it easily. But he can't argue back, which is the annoying part. He sees Harry rolling his eyes and isn't able to suppress a slight glare. Now, Harry is turning away from him, offering a full view of his toned back muscles and broad shoulders as he walks in the opposite direction. 

"You're going to help me," he calls over his shoulder at Louis. 

Seeing no other option, Louis, confused, follows after him. 

"With what, exactly?" 

As Harry approaches an open weight station and begins sliding thick weight plates off of the rack and fitting them on the bar is when Louis realizes his tragic fate. 

"Well, someone's got to spot me."

Oh shit. He has to watch Harry lift weights, from a close distance, while he's in a muscle shirt. He takes a brief moment to close his eyes and ask the lord, why me? The metal plates screech as Harry slides them, one after another, onto the bar. How many is he going to do? Those things are fucking huge, and are collectively probably five times the weight that Louis can do. At this point, he is considering dropping one on his head and ending his misery before it begins. 

"Stop standing and put a collar on that side," Harry commands as he locks one on the other end of the bar. 

Louis scowls at him, but obeys, securing the weights in place on the bar with the other collar, quietly muttering something about using manners. Harry steps over the bench and straddles it backwards before sitting down and lowering himself so he's laying on his back. His curls fall out of his the way and fan out around his face as he shifts to adjust himself under the bar. 

"Get behind me," he orders quietly, glancing over towards Louis with a raised eyebrow. 

Louis blinks and looks away from Harry, walking behind the bench and forcing himself not to look down at the expense of muscled torso laying right there, practically calling his name. Now, he has nothing to say, so he keeps his mouth shut, tightly, just in case. 

"Help it over," Harry says, his hands coming up to grip the bar, fingers flexing and adjusting around it. 

He can barely lift it himself, so he isn't much of a help, but Louis helps the bar over and out of the rack so that the only thing supporting it now is Harry. He watches as Harry holds the bar still above him, arms straight over his body, getting used to the weight of it. Then, before Louis can even blink, Harry is lowering the weighted bar until it touches his chest and pushing it back up again, continuously, with so much force and power that just watching it makes Louis tired. 

Harry lowers and lifts again and again, without losing pace, the muscles in his arms flexing under his shirt with the movement, visibly strong and solid. The bar touches his chest for maybe the twentieth time, and now he's started to let out hisses of pent up air with each time he thrusts the bar up. His eyes are screwed shut, face scrunched up and developing a few drops of sweat that roll down his temples, shiny red lips fallen agape. Then, abruptly, with one last shove, Harry lifts the bar over his head and back onto the rack, a loud metallic clang sounding as the heavily weighted bar falls back in place. Louis just stands--he can't move, watching as Harry sits up on the bench and pushes a hand through his hair, then standing up straight again and wiping sweat from his hairline with the back of his wrist. 

"Put those weights back," he tells Louis, and Louis does exactly that without saying a word. 

By the time the plates are back on the rack, Harry has already started towards another station of the gym, where a few of Louis' teammates are just finishing up. As Harry approaches the area, and suddenly reaches up to grab onto a bar suspended from the wall, hoisting himself up into pull-up position, Louis begins composing his will in his head. Because he's going to die here, watching Harry do pull-ups and other sexy exercises while sweaty and wearing a muscle shirt. 

His breath catches in his throat as he inhales sharply, watching the muscles Harry's torso and sides extend and contract as he pulls his weight over the bar again and again. His arms look so strong as they flex with the effort, and Louis finds himself wanting to reach out and run his hands over every inch of the muscled plains of Harry's body.

Realizing ashamedly and with great embarrassment that his mouth is kind of hanging open as he creepily stares at his coach doing pull-ups like a machine, Louis quickly averts his eyes and snaps his mouth shut. At the same time, Harry agilely hops down from the bar and lets out a huff of breath before stretching his arms over his head. By now, his curls are dampened and clinging to the sharp outline of his face, the hair by his neck coiled into tighter, wet ringlets. He reaches a hand up to shake it out and push it out of his way. Louis crosses his arms around his chest. 

Harry leans to the side and pulls two fifty pound dumbbells off of the rack next to him, letting them hang by his sides for a moment as he takes a breath in through his nose, eyes flicking downward to meet Louis'. Louis looks away as he starts curling the weights upward, breathing laboredly through his nose. Harry's still looking at him--he can tell by the shiver that ghosts down his own spine. Louis doesn't look back up until Harry drops the weights back on the rack, chest heaving. 

"What time's it?" He asks, short breathed. 

Louis blinks and turns around to squint at the wall clock, telling Harry that they only have ten minutes left of practice. Harry pauses for a second, surveying the weight room and making sure that no one is acting up. Then, he abruptly turns to Louis and looks him square in the face. 

"You want to do some?" 

Louis blinks again, startled. 

"What, upper body lifting?" 

Harry nods.

"To be honest, no," he answers, straight up. 

The corner of Harry's lip twitches up, eyes brightening. 

"Is that so?" He asks, with a tone that, if Louis didn't know any better, sounds playful. 

"Yeah. Not really my thing." 

Harry looks at him, amusement in his expression, for a minute. 

"Figured." 

With that, he turns away from Louis and starts towards the back of the room. Louis frowns. What was that supposed to mean? 

He guesses that he's supposed to follow Harry, so he does, meeting him over by an empty area of the gym that doesn't have much equipment near it. Harry lowers himself onto the ground so he's sitting with his knees up to his chest and looks up at Louis expectantly. Louis just stands there awkwardly for a second, unsure of what he should be doing. 

"Can you hold my feet down?" Harry finally says, laying back on his elbows and shuffling a hand through his hair.

Louis finds it weird that Harry's actually asking him for once instead of commanding it, but he nonetheless obliges, sinking to the floor cross-legged and anchoring Harry's shoes to the floor with his hands. He's actually touching Harry, purposefully, and even though it might only be his feet, it's still something. It feels unusually casual to be making physical contact with his coach in this way. Probably because he doesn't have to touch a different place, like his chest or something. That might be more awkward. Definitely. It's just feet, though, so it's okay. 

Harry begins doing his sit-ups, the muscles in his torso flexing relentlessly under the skin-tight fabric of his shirt. Louis has to look away from that. Every time Harry comes up, though, he only catches the scent of strawberry shampoo and cinnamon, which isn't helping much, either. He settles for holding his breath and staring at a wall until Harry is done. He lets go of Harry's feet so he can get up, and then begins to stand as well, when he sees the large hand extended right in front of his face. He looks up to see Harry reaching down towards him with one of his muscular arms, his green eyes peering down at him blankly and damp hair falling wavily around his face. Louis recognizes the thumping in his ears to be the sound of his racing heart. Hesitantly, Louis brings his hand up to meet Harry's, and the fingers close around his own to pull him up and off the ground into a standing position, that he realizes is so close to Harry that he can faintly see a tiny freckle under his jaw. 

Before he knows what he's doing, he's quickly moving away, his hand falling from Harry's as he takes a step in the opposite direction. He doesn't know where he was trying to go, so he just ends up standing awkwardly in front of Harry with his head down and his hands wrung together.

"Thanks," is all he can bring himself to mutter, and the only thing he can think of to make the situation less tense, which also doesn't work. 

Harry nods curtly and stretches his arms while simultaneously calling the team over. Why is Louis freaking out over this? Having a physical attraction to his soccer coach is probably not the world's most important issue at the moment. Plus, all he did was grab his hand and help him up--it wasn't even that big of a deal. Liam comes up to stand beside him, and Louis wills his cheeks to return to a more natural skin color, hoping that his friend doesn't notice his discomfort. 

"Alright, uh," Harry starts, jolting Louis back into reality. "Tomorrow, we'll go over our game strategy and not do much physical activity. It'll be a tough opponent, so just, uh...do what you have to do to get yourselves ready. See you then."

"Have fun spotting for--"

Liam's sure to be sarcastic, and most likely perverted comment is cut off by the sound of Harry's low voice calling for Louis from behind them just as they start walking away. Louis stops in his tracks and hope Liam catches his panicked glance before he mumbles a rushed "text me later" and starts back towards Harry. He can almost feel the curious, big brown stare of his best friend on the back of his head as he turns around. 

Harry is leaning against the lat machine, long legs crossed under him and arms folded over his chest. His green gaze follows Louis as he approaches, and for a brief moment flicks down before coming back up to meet Louis' eyes. A colorful, unwanted heat blossoms in Louis' cheeks. 

"Um, yeah?" He asks, standing expectantly and hoping Harry doesn't catch onto his nervousness. 

Harry clears his throat and immediately after darts his tongue across his lips, a habit of his that Louis admittedly recognizes. 

"Uh, you are. Um. You're going to be good to play tomorrow?" 

He cocks a straight eyebrow and blinks, but Louis is kind of lost at the moment. He's thinking about Harry's voice; Louis doesn't think he'll ever get over it. It's slow and deep and scratchy and sounds like every word is chosen with great care. It reminds him of sweet morning tea in the kitchen in soft clothes and strong, warm arms, but at the same time it reminds him of raspy, passionate slurs of hardly comprehendible words under the sheets where there's nothing to hide. He comes to the conclusion that Harry's voice is a very beautiful sound, and it'd be a waste not to hear it in every way it could possibly be heard. In a totally non creepy way, of course. 

And now Harry's working away at him with his eyes, peering down at him with those torturous green things and that godforsaken curly hair and cut jaw. When will it stop? 

"Yeah, yeah definitely," Louis answers, finally finding his tongue. "I'm good." 

Harry nods, dragging a thumb over his Adam's apple absently and looking out into the room. 

"Good, yeah. Just, um, don't do anything stupid and hurt yourself again. 'S the last thing the team needs." 

It should probably be offensive, but Louis doesn't let it. He lets a half smile sneak onto his face anyway, tilts his head down to hide it. 

"Right. I'll get on that."

Their conversation just seems to teeter off after that, leaving them both just there with each other. There's a silent moment when Harry just looks straight back at him, and the corners of his eyes are squinted up a little bit and the left side of his nice red mouth is tilted up in the slightest of all smiles, but it's more than enough. Too much in fact, and Louis finds himself having to look away from Harry before he goes and does something stupid like kisses his lips until they aren't smirking anymore. 

"I have to get to work, actually," Louis announces truthfully after clearing his throat to break the quiet spell. 

Harry leans off of the machine and stands up straight so that he's taller than Louis again, much to Louis' own disappointment and enjoyment at the same time. He stretches an arm across his chest, and Louis practically drools over the way his muscles flex with the movement. 

"Take care of yourself, yeah?" Harry says, and his voice has this faded edge of real actual concern that Louis can't get over. 

Louis gulps. "Yeah, of course," he answers weakly. "See you tomorrow." 

And he looks back up at Harry for the briefest second before he goes, but damn, he might regret it. Because Harry's green eyes are squinted with observation and pointed right on him like a fucking spotlight, and he's rolling a saliva-slicked lip between his teeth and now Louis is going to be replaying that image in his head for the next twenty four hours. He turns away quickly, almost like he was in a hurry to get away from Harry when in reality he just wants to get closer and closer until there isn't any more room between them. Maybe it's because his common sense is trying to warn him, trying to tell him that fooling around with his coach - no matter how gorgeous - is like taking a bite out of a forbidden fruit. He should know better, for fucks sake, who in their right mind just goes and has a crush on their coach? Only sluts, that's who, and Louis is not a slut. He won't give into the absurd, pestering desire that lies in the pit of his stomach, he won't let the illogical side of himself have its way, because he knows it's wrong and he will not be the one to ruin everything. 

 

\--------------------


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Twas the nizzle before christmizzle and all thru the hizzle...YOU CAN HEAR MY SOBS BC LOUIS ISNT A LIL BABY ANYMORE

It's Thursday already, and Louis can't shake the feeling that the week has blown by too fast. One of the most important games of the season is tomorrow, and he has just barely returned to the game, fresh off an injury. Definitely not a good way to kick things off. Today's his last practice until the big game, so he doesn't have very long to get his mojo back. If he even has any left, that is. 

His knee is feeling iffy as of the moment, if he's being truthful. Sometimes he'll just be walking, and it twists at a funny angle and he almost falls in a heap on the floor. But mostly, it's okay. He did a test jog after practice on Wednesday just to see, and so far, the pain of the whole re-break-to-fix-it thing and the two weeks of crutches has proven majorly successful. And maybe Liam's constant insistence to "ice it vigorously" has helped a little, too, even if it is annoying as fuck. 

Louis survives the school day, thankfully, with no homework to do. Another plus: he has yet to be beaten up or tossed around this week. Which is good, he thinks. Maybe he's like immune to getting the shit kicked out of him since he's been recently crippled (knock on wood). Ryan might give him the occasional "accidental" shoulder shove in the hallway, but that's better than most he's gotten before. So, hey, he has no complaints. 

Isaiah and him walk to the locker room together after school since Liam is making up a test and will be late to practice. Louis does his routine change facing the corner, as not to disturb the heterosexuals in the premises. He bundles up in his Manchester United hoodie, a beanie and gloves, tucking the bottoms of his joggers into his socks. As he steps out onto the field, cold wind and snow biting relentlessly at his cheeks, he curses nature. January has finally decided to rear its ugly head and be a literally, cold bitch this year. Which makes playing football outdoors just that much more enjoyable!

His eyes instantly search for and lock on the broad shouldered man sat on the bench, a habit he often finds himself unconsciously repeating. He refers to it as his Harry-tunnel-vision. He doesn't even know why it exists, though, and he doesn't want it to. It's creepy and wrong. But now, he realizes that he's almost unconsciously been walking towards that bench, and plopping down next to his coach, just a short reach away from his slumped figure. He's not really sure what he's even doing. Could he have been any more awkward? 

He leans down to fumble with his untied shoelaces, gripping the strings so tight his knuckles go pale. Small, nervous shudders shake through his body just at his and Harry's proximity and he thinks about how he's lucky that it's cold enough outside to disguise it. Neither of them say anything while he does up his cleats, the only noise between them the occasional sniff that Harry makes and the sound of winter jacket material shifting as he pulls on a pair of gloves. Louis is almost done tying his boots, but he just has to take one glance over. He sees Harry sitting quietly, staring out at the field where the players have gathered, shivering even under his fluffy jacket and beanie, gloved hands folded in his lap. His hair curls out from his beanie and licks at his pink cheeks, lips shiny with saliva and red as cherries, green eyes standing out against the white sky behind him. And that's too much for Louis, really, because what is he supposed to do now? Now that he's found yet another hundred things about Harry that he just can't get over? Now that he realizes there's no way he's going to start feeling any less for his coach, of all people? He can't stop wondering how a person can go from tough and hard to soft and calm like that, how green eyes and a pretty mouth can go from intimidatingly perfect to just downright gorgeous, beauty in its purest form. He can't stop thinking about what would happen if he just found out what those lips felt like against his, discovered how soft that skin was under his fingers. He doesn't think he'll stop imagining, and it's going to destroy him, surely. 

Harry doesn't look over at him, which is good, because it gives Louis time to scramble the hell away from him and onto the field, practically running himself into the safety and sanity of Liam's presence and not looking back. Liam gives him a weird glance at first, and then proceeds to tell him about how Isaiah cleverly taped a USB vertically to the seat of Mr. Montgomery's chair so that it would "just give his butthole a little poke" and got away with it. Louis shakes his head and smiles, his internal struggle that occurred while sitting on the bench nearby momentarily forgotten. That is, until the object of said internal struggle decides to get off of said bench and strut onto the field with a wave of his hand, signaling the gathering of the team around him in a half circle. Louis follows, being careful not to make eye contact - or to even look at him at all, for that matter. Once he clears his throat and starts speaking though, his gravelly, low voice doesn't help Louis's inner turmoil much, either. 

"Today, we'll be mostly doing technical stuff, like passing and shooting," he explains. "After you run your three laps, you'll get into passing lines. So, erm, yeah. Go ahead." 

Louis runs his three laps, along with the rest of the team, discovering that he isn't fully recovered in athletic terms. A week or two of slacking off definitely puts him at the back end of the pack, much to his annoyance. He knew that it would be that way, though, she as painful as it may be, he'll just have to wait it out. 

After their laps, they assemble into passing lines, and Louis falls into the simple drill with ease after a minute. It feels nice to have a ball back at his feet, and he finds that his ability to handle the ball hasn't taken any hits along with his injury. Although his athleticism might be lesser than the others, he can still whoop their asses at a nice footy challenge. That's always a good attribute to have under his belt, especially since some of the people he can out-skill happen to hate his guts and occasionally enjoy using him as practice for their right hook. 

Harry tells them to move onto one-two passes, and Louis is feeling pretty good, despite the dull ache in his knee. Something else is happening, though, that is wavering his confidence. He won't look over, but he can feel Harry's eyes trailing his every movement, as if waiting for him to make a mistake. He continues to sense that for a few minutes until he finally gathers the courage to look at Harry, catching his eyes for a brief moment. And he realizes that his assumption is wrong when he spots the furrow-browed, thin lipped expression of concern that he's directing straight at Louis. He quickly turns his attention back to the drill and tries not to dwell on the rapidity of his own heartbeat. Harry is worried about him? Since when? 

After that, they just do competitive possession and shooting, as promised. Now that he's noticed it, Louis can't ignore the constant look of worry that Harry is shooting his way, as if at any second, he might snap right in half. Something about it has Louis' stomach churning with some kind of emotion he can't put a name to. But especially now of all times, Harry is literally the exact last thing he needs to be concerned with. He has to get his head back in the game, so he can be on top of his shit tomorrow. If he fucks up this coming game because of some pansy boyish distraction, he'll never stop reliving his disappointment. Football is more important than boys. 

Practice today feels short, because before he knows it, they're being called over by Harry and forming a tight half circle full of heavy breathed boys covered in layers upon layers of clothing and even more layers of snow, it seems. Louis shivers and crosses his arms over his chest at the back of the pack, wishing to just get this over with and get out of the place. Harry keeps his post-session lecture short today, which must mean he's thinking similarly. 

"You'll need to rest tonight so you can be prepared for tomorrow's game," he says, sniffling and running a gloved finger over the corner of his shiny lip. Louis' stare trails the movement, the cold momentarily forgotten. "Don't go and do anything stupid, yeah?" 

Louis watches as a barely existent smile curls the left side of Harry's mouth. There's a chorus of snorts and mumbled side comments, but Louis finds himself only smiling, as well, and quickly dips his head to hide it, staring at his snow covered cleats. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, you can go," Harry says finally, and that's all Louis needs to hear before he's bee-lining for the bench. 

He won't deny it - he's totally rushing to get off of the field and away from Harry, because he doesn't trust himself to be near him and his surreal, god-like presence for much longer. He's gathering his water bottle and discarded beanie from the bench as fast as he can without seeming suspicious, tugging the beanie hurriedly over his tousled and half-frozen hair. After reaching back down to pick his water up, Louis stands straight again and turns on his heel to escape from the field when he suddenly finds himself walking directly into someone. Too late to change direction, he is crashing unceremoniously into a solid chest before he falls backwards from the impact, quickly losing his balance. Out of instinct, his hands reach out and grab the nearest thing to keep himself from falling, fingers wrapping in a handful of fabric. Before he can fully process the situation, a pair of big hands are gripping his shoulders and pulling him back up, holding him steady. He can feel hot breath that isn't his own hitting his face and it feels like his brain and body have completely stopped working. His whole front side is almost pressed entirely to another body for a brief second before the other person straightens out and takes a tiny step back, his hands not releasing their hold on Louis' arms. Louis looks up, standing rigidly and wide-eyed up at Harry, feeling the most embarrassed and frantic he thinks he's ever felt. 

"I...I, um -" 

"Are you alright?" 

Louis can only stare, not able to look away from Harry's furrowed eyebrows or bright eyes or red lips. And that voice is right there, only inches away from his own mouth. There's a small squeeze at his arms and he blinks, finally coming to his senses. He only then realizes that Harry's jacket is still trapped in his fists, and he releases it quickly. 

"Y-yeah, I'm sorry, I wasn't--"

"S'fine," Harry interrupts, carefully letting go of Louis, but not making a move to step away. 

Louis -absurdly - almost misses the contact, longs for Harry's hands back on him. His senses are kicked into overdrive, and he feels overwhelmed by the scent of fruit, laundry detergent, and the intoxicating scent of Harry's natural musk. Lost in the way that he is so close; he can feel the heat radiating from Harry's body. Louis watches as Harry's eyes search his face, squinted slightly and seeking. He marvels in the way the snowflakes catch on his thick lashes. 

"Just be careful, Louis, yeah?" He says, and looks down at him in a way that seems exactly like concern. 

Louis' throat feels tight, but he speaks through it. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah. Um, I've got to...I'll see you tomorrow then?" 

"Right," Harry replies, his eyes still flicking over Louis' face, taking in his expression. "See you."

Louis pries his stare away from Harry and finds it in himself to turn away, grabbing his water bottle from the snow-glazed turf before walking away, and not even thinking about looking back in fear of being caught in the act. Once he is safely behind the doors of the locker room does he allow himself to breathe, collect himself and calm down before he can keep acting like a fucking teenage girl. He unclenches his vice grip on his water bottle, straightens his jacket, and shuts down any and all thoughts that are circling around in his brain before getting the hell out of dodge. 

 

\--

 

That night, while he's working behind the counter, serving up drink after drink to heart-broken man after heart-broken-man, being just your average, pretend-friendly bartender, he tries not to think about the inconvenient position he's in with Harry. But somehow, as always, he ends up sneaking his way into Louis' thoughts. 

Just the fact that he's Louis' way out of Louis' league should be enough to steer him away, but no. He's Louis' fucking football coach, and he still can't keep himself from ogling over the man. And he should know it's wrong, he should have been aware of that since the very start. But for some reason, the more time he spends around Harry, talking to Harry, looking at Harry, touching Harry, the less he's thinking about the wrongness of it all. It kind of just makes him a bit frustrated that he can't even just have a tiny liking for Harry only because he's a player and Harry's a coach. He usually never has crushes on boys (except for Ryder Bentley that one time in his freshman year, and that even turned out badly - aka Ryder blurting out his gayness to the whole entire school practically and dooming the rest of his high school career and life). So this should technically be a big deal. Louis thinks that whatever rule doesn't allow him to make a move on Harry is stupid. And rules or not, he doesn't know if Harry's is even gay. And if he is, he doesn't even know if he thinks Louis is attractive, or worth his time. The odds are definitely not in Louis' favor on this one, so he'll just leave matters in time's hands and wait until he gets over this inconvenient crush. He always does, anyway. 

For the rest of the night, Louis doesn't think about it. He decides hell just deal with it if and when it becomes a more pressing issue. And now is especially not a good time to let it bother him, because he's got an important game tomorrow that he can't fuck up, post-injury or not. Harry's just a   
distraction - but a really good one, at that. Because no matter how hard he tries, Louis can't stop remembering the feel of Harry's big, gentle hands on him and his green eyes and pretty red lips closer than he could ever ask for, yet much too far away.


End file.
